


cause i'll be coming over, while our blood's still young

by idkmandestiel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: -me talking about my fic, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, BUT I AM COMING BACK, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Domestic Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, F/M, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gay Bucky Barnes, I AM SORRY, I HAVENT WRITTEN IN AWHILE, M/M, Maximoff Twin Feels, Musician Bucky Barnes, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Neighbors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam is a Sweetheart, Steve and Bucky - Freeform, Stucky - Freeform, Tattoo Artist Steve Rogers, WITH JOHN MULANEY REFERENCES, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, this is an on-fire garbage can
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:30:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7374532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idkmandestiel/pseuds/idkmandestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>steve rogers lives his life in his small apartment in a neighborly Brooklyn area, working in a tattoo parlor. he lives a monotonous life, on the same schedule doing the same things. </p><p>when a new neighbor moves into the apartment above him, things begin to change before steve even realizes it, and he can't help it if he falls hard for the blue-eyed musician with a dark past and a beautiful smile. </p><p>he really can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the need for softness

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [因為我即將到你身旁, 把握住我們的年少輕狂](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7427698) by [BEVEL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BEVEL/pseuds/BEVEL)



> title is from the song "sweet disposition" by the temper trap. this is a fic about two men in their attempts to mend themselves by trying to be alone, only to realize that having someone by your side is the solution to everything. 
> 
> (contains: fluff, lots of cursing, domesticity, and yeah, lots of sadness too)

Steve slumped back into his seat, pencil in his mouth and a frustrated look on his face. 

"Dammit."

The drawing wasn't working out the way he had imagined it would. He tried, he really did, to soften his strokes on the paper. The whole premise was to make it like a dream- like his dream, really. But Steve tried everything, from holding the pencil in a different way, to a thicker paper, to a different pencil. But no matter what he did, no matter how he loosened his grip on the pencil, it wouldn't come out on paper the way he wanted to. 

Steve wanted to take the image in his head, the image of the safe haven he never had- the one in his dreams every night- and put it on paper, once and for all. Maybe, he thought, maybe it would help me feel more sane.

So he ripped the paper out of the notebook in front of him, crumpled it up and threw it in the general vicinity of the wastebasket against the wall in his shit apartment. He sighed in defeat and reluctantly got up from the couch, tossing his notebook on the coffee table in front of him. He rubbed his hand over his face, exhausted and dizzy from sitting and drawing all night. He looked out the window and saw the remains of the night sky disappear as the sun began to rise. He sighed and padded over to the kitchen, which was small and cramped in the corner of his small and cramped apartment in the middle of Brooklyn, New York. 

He made a fresh pot of coffee, and sipped it from his mug as he leaned against the counter. Steve knew he had to get to work at 8, and it was currently six in the morning. That meant he had two more hours of free time, so he finished up his coffee, black with no sugar, and sauntered over to his room to grab his sneakers for a run. As he bent down to tie his sneakers on his feet, he heard footsteps from the floor above him. 

Huh, Steve thought, that's new. 

He didn't react any further, and grabbed his phone and stuck it in his back pocket and shut the door behind him. He started to make his way down the complex stairs, running his hands through his hair and rubbing his eyes, trying to push the exhaustion away. When he made it to the door of his building, he pushed it quickly and started jogging. He almost missed the big orange and white striped truck parked in front of the building. Steve paused, realizing that it was a moving truck, and stopped in front of it. 

Weird, Steve thought, I didn't know there was a free apartment in the building. 

He pondered for another moment, and then went back into jogging mode, quickly making his way down the block and turning the first corner. 

***

Steve liked jogging. He liked the way he was able to clear his mind and just run- not to any place in particular, not really focused on direction or location. He knew that he would end up back in front of his apartment eventually, because his body somehow knew to navigate him there. 

So Steve ran, meandering and focused all at once, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time. That's why he liked running- because nothing mattered while he did it, he could just do this one thing without having to worry about the rest of his life and obligations and responsibilities. Physically, it had some positive effects; he knew it was good for his health to maintain a regular schedule of physical exercise, especially since he couldn't do all this stuff when he was younger, with all that he had gone through physically. His chest didn't ache now, his body didn't feel the strain of the run and he felt that he could go on forever. 

He remembered his mother, back when she was around, always pushing him to walk a little further, always cheering for him when he kicked a ball around. He had been sick for most of his childhood until he managed to hit puberty in his late teens. His mother had cared for him, tending to him every day when she was home from work, feeding him soup and telling him stories, in a desperate attempt to distract him from all the pain in chest and the rest of his frail, nearly-broken body. She even sang him to sleep one time when he was 14- that was the last time she sung him to sleep, for she died a few weeks later in a car accident on her way home from work. Steve then went into foster care, for he had no other family in the world. He ended up receiving adequate health care, but it wasn't the same and he ached for his mother's loving touch and her soft voice, teasing him and caring for him whenever he needed it, and even when he didn't- she was a mother after all. 

Steve turned a block and recognized that he was back in his neighborhood. He looked down at his watch and realized it was 7:30, so he jogged quickly back to his building. He acknowledged mentally the truck still parked in front of the building and made his way back up the stairs. When he let himself back into his apartment, the footsteps above were louder, accompanied by the occasional drag of what Steve assumed was furniture. 

Steve looked up to the ceiling curiously, pondering for a moment, until he realized that this must be the person who was using the moving truck out in front of the building. He moved on, ignoring his vague curiosity and throwing his phone on the coffee table and grabbing a towel from the small closet near the bathroom door. He showered quickly and changed into jeans and a t-shirt, slipping into his beat-up boots and ruffling his hair for a few second in the mirror, deciding it wasn't worth the trouble- and that it was time for a haircut. He grabbed an apple from the fridge, he quickly got his phone from the coffee table as well as his keys, and jogged to the door, giving his small apartment a once-over and then shutting the door behind him. 

He walked out of the building and crossed the street. He started walking, taking a bite from his apple and checking the time- 7:48. 

"Shit."

Steve started jogging, not wanting to be late and get a look from Wanda or Pietro. He turned the respective turns and made it to the shop at exactly 8:00 on the dot. He pushed the door open, and Wanda was sat on the counter, chatting with her brother who was busy writing something in a notebook. 

"Oh, you still work here?" Wanda looked up at Steve, who was panting slightly as he tossed the apple core in the wastebasket near the door. 

"Ha, very funny," Steve retorts, ignoring the look Wanda gave him in response. "Unless you guys fire me, you're stuck with me forever."

"Or you could be a normal person and open your own damn tattoo place," Pietro shoots back, and Steve gives him the middle finger and walks over to the counter. 

Wanda and Pietro opened Maximoff's Tattoo Shop four years ago, and Steve had wandered in a few months after opening, asking if there were any jobs available. Pietro had jumped up, desperate to not be the only tattoo artist in the place, and Wanda just complained that there should be another piercer. After two years of working there, all Steve began to hear was teasing about him getting his own place and starting his own business. The twins loved Steve, but knew that he would be better off with his own business and dictating things his own way. Steve was stubborn, and four years later, still refused, claiming he wouldn't be able to handle his own business. 

So Steve, Wanda and Pietro worked every day of the week, times varying on the amount of appointments that day. Wanda had hired Casey, a young college student who got trained and became a piercer. She came in whenever Wanda needed her to, but ultimately, it was the three of them in Maximoff's, and they were content- even happy, for the most part. 

"We're done by three today," Pietro says, "so we could do something after work?" he asks, hopeful but knowing fully-well that Steve would say no. 

"I have things to do at home," Steve replies, and Pietro slumps against the counter in defeat. 

"What, like your non-existent boyfriend?" Wanda comments dryly, and Pietro snorts as Steve grunts and flicks her shoulder in response. "I can always set you up if you're done sulking away in that tiny apartment every night," she says, as-a-matter-of-factly. 

"I'm good," Steve responds sarcastically and grabs the clipboard on the counter and stomps away to the back room. 

The work day went by slow, each client coming in by appointment and the periods in between characterized by typical banter. Lunch was at 1, the three of them grabbing a slice of pizza from the pizzeria across the street. The rest of the day went by, Steve did his work. At 3, Pietro bid him goodbye, and Wanda handing the keys to Steve to lock up, saying she had a dance session at her studio.

Steve was alone in the shop, which was quiet save from the air coming out of the air conditioning in the back of the shop and the shuffling sounds of Steve putting away the needles and ink, as well as the wipes and other necessities. 

After cleaning up, he went up to the counter to check the rest of the week's schedule. He only had to be in for four hours tomorrow, from 9 to 1. This meant he had the afternoon free tomorrow. The same for the next day, Wednesday. 

He shut off the lights and the air, and closed the door behind him, double checking the lock out of habit. He started walking in the direction of his apartment, hands stuffed in his pant pockets. Vaguely aware of his surroundings, he bid a good day to anyone he recognized in the neighborhood, well acquainted with everyone because of the years weighed down on their affiliations. He walked slow, in no rush with his empty day ahead of him. 

The sun was beating down on him, the air slightly humid in the middle of this particularly hot month of June. There was little to no shade, being that he was in Brooklyn and there were no trees and just tall buildings. He walked past a fenced in field, where he saw kids playing baseball and kicking a soccer ball around. Further in was a park, where mothers ran after their sticky toddlers and fathers sat on the side with exhausted looks on their not-so-young-anymore faces. 

Steve passed a bus stop, where a group of teenagers with battered up bags, slumped against the wall gossiping with one another and complaining about the heat and finals in school. He brushed past them and crossed the street and turned, almost bumping into a couple walking hand in hand and giggling into each other's ears. 

"Oops," one guy said. 

"Oh!- so sorry," the other exclaimed, and they scurried away hand in hand. Steve smiles as they go, suppressing the want, the desire to be that close with someone, and he continues walking along the sidewalk, looking curiously at his surroundings. He was a few blocks away from his apartment, still taking his sweet time, not wanting to be sitting alone in his apartment yet again. He's slow to walk, taking in the busy humanity and it's beautiful bustle. He pauses at the corner with his apartment building in sight, sighs and crosses the street. 

The moving truck was gone, the spot empty and bare. Steve stood in the spot and looked up at his building. It has six floors, two apartments each. He lives on the second floor, facing toward the street at the same level of a boutique shoppe across the street. It was a fairly nice neighborhood, he got the apartment for a decent price. 

As he walked into his apartment, he took it all in again. It was small with a lot of stuff, but it held little sentiment- his belongings was scattered about, looking like they had been there for a long time, but they still didn't fit. His entire apartment looked as if it were waiting to be packed up and moved out. It was his house, his place, but it was not his home. He didn't have a home. He hadn't had a home since he was 14 years old, always a nomad, finding a place to be until a new place looked better and he packed up his stuff and left. 

It was foster home to foster home, then college dorms and then this apartment. He never had a place to go back to, all his stuff in one place; everything he had ever known, gone, when his mother passed away. 

And God, he missed Sarah Rogers so much. He missed his mother every day, always thinking of what she should say if she saw him today, what she would think of his art and of Pietro and Wanda and Natasha and of his apartment and what she should say if she saw how he stayed up all night, too scared to sleep and sitting alone in his living room drawing. She would disapprove, Steve knows it, but she isn't here. She would never be here again. 

He dropped his phone and his keys on the coffee table and rubbed his hands over his face, unsure what to do with himself. He looked around the apartment as he stood in place, thinking of a way to distract himself- from what, he didn't know, not really. 

He saunters over to the kitchen and opens the fridge, inspecting its content. There were some fruit and milk, a jug of water, some cold cuts from the deli and a few cups of yogurt. He knew he needed more food, so he shut the fridge door and grabbed his phone and keys, set on going to the market a few blocks away. 

He leaves the apartment and goes down the stairs and out the door. With a destination in mind, he starts walking. He reaches the corner where the small market is and pulls the door open, greeted by a blast of cold air from the the air conditioning. He lets himself in and starts in the first aisle, greeting Kevin, the young guy who worked there every day, with a wave. 

He examines the different kinds of butter, but ultimately grabs the salted one that he always gets. He has a basket in his hand and tosses it in. He looks over to his left and takes a carton of eggs, thinking maybe he could bake something and give it to Pietro, he would love that. 

He's done with the cold produce aisle and turns the corner and reaches the grains aisle. He gives the bread section a once over and grabs a package of rye bread and one of regular whole wheat. He also grabs a box of pasta, remembering that he ran out a few days before. He walks over to the fruit and vegetable aisle and starts walking slowly. 

He grabs a half of a watermelon, a carton of strawberries and a few plums, because hey, why not. He sees the celery section and grabs a few stalks, and grabs some spinach. It pains him to be healthy, but he knew that he couldn't live off of ramen noodles and take out forever, so he recently started buying fruits and vegetables, finding himself enjoying it more than he cared to admit. 

He selects a bag of baby carrots and puts it in the basket. He leaves that section and grabs a few more necessities and makes his way toward Kevin at the cash register. A few people are in line in front of him; a mother and her toddler daughter, who made grabby hands whenever she saw something; two young girls with matching blonde hair down their backs, wearing long dresses to the floor, and directly in front of him was a young man, with dark hair tied in a bun. He couldn't see their faces, but Steve watched the people place their items on the counter and Kevin made small talk, commenting on what they bought and smiling when they left. 

The man in front of him plops down two handfuls of ramen packages and a carton of milk. Kevin looks at him curiously.

"You new in town?" he asks, and the stranger looks at him. 

"Yeah, moved in today," he replies, and puts a package of cheese on the counter and some generic brand of white bread. "I was actually- well, I wasn't wondering, I really just don't know," he says, "are there any bars around here?"

Steve perks up, hearing that this stranger had just moved in today. He tried to see his face, but he couldn't from where he was standing, so he watched and listened intently. 

"Oh, yeah, man," Kevin replies with a smile. "There's Hank's down the block, and also there's The Red Room a few blocks away."

"Oh, okay," the stranger replies, taking out his wallet. 

"There's also, um," Steve finds that words are coming out of his mouth before he could control it. "There's The Shield, it's one avenue over."

The stranger and Kevin look back at him, the stranger with a surprised look on his face. 

"There's a stage there, my friend Natasha owns the place and she's always looking for people to play every night," Steve continues. "It's a great place."

"Th-that sounds great, thank you," the strangers blue eyes crinkle as he smiles at Steve, and the latter smiles back shyly. "I will definitely check it out, thank you."

"If you go, tell Natasha that Steve told you about the place," he says, and the stranger smiles again warmly, takes his change from Kevin and grabs his bags of groceries and says his goodbyes, and is gone before Steve could say anything else. 

Steve walks forward and puts his basket on the counter, making small talk with Kevin but his mind is racing, thinking that he might've just met his new neighbor.


	2. to feel human (again?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky moved into his new apartment and has another unplanned meet-up with the stranger from the market with blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys, I hope you enjoy this one. it's a bit shorter because I thought it would be better to put the next part of the story together.
> 
> PS: IF ANYONE IS INTERESTES IN BETAING OR KNOWS SOMEONE WHO WILL BETA, PLS CONTACT ME OR COMMENT BELOW BC I NEED ONE

Bucky wiped his brow, furrowed in frustration as he examined his new apartment. He wanted to put the couch in the far left corner, but it just looked off and didn't fit right. He sighed, and walked over again, dragging the couch over to the center. He looks around again, pushing his hair out of his face- how did it even get out of the bun!- and trying to figure out where he could put this god forsaken, stupid couch. 

He sighs again and huffs, and grabs the carton of milk he had bought and takes a huge gulp of it, wiping his milk mustache promptly, as to not look like an idiot in front of no one. He plops down on the floor, and sighs once more in defeat, leaning against still-full-of-shit boxes. 

It has been nine months since he was discharged from the army, six months of it being physical therapy at Stark Industries in Manhattan. After being held in the hospital and rehab for three months, they released him into the hands of Tony Stark, letting him give Bucky the new arm that he so desired. He did the therapy, living in the complex for their patients down the street, and was finally released by Tony who told him that he "better call me when you're settled so we can grab some dinner at this new cool place Pep told me about, it's this like blend of Asian and American cuisine and it sounds great and..."

Bucky didn't remember what else he said, mostly because he wasn't listening and left the room, waving goodbye to Tony who was too busy talking to himself.

So then, Bucky decided to go back to Brooklyn, his hometown, and while he was at it, start focusing on his basically-dead music career. He was living off his pension and benefits, so he could afford to play at some bar in the neighborhood for fifty bucks. So when he went to that little market a few blocks away, he figured he might as well ask around about some bars that would let some cripple with too-long hair play on a random Tuesday or Wednesday night. 

It went well, and there was a cute guy there, too, so that's a plus- wait, not the cashier guy, the one behind him, obviously. 

So anyways, Bucky was sitting on the floor in his new apartment, avoiding calls from his mother and sister and drinking milk straight from the carton. And that's all anyone really needs to know. 

***

A few hours pass, and the apartment is set up- the couch was reluctantly placed near the center of the room, which meant the television was against the wall near the bathroom. Most of the boxes were unpacked, the remaining ones stacked against the wall near the front door. All the things inside the boxes were scattered on the floor, on the desk and coffee table, and on the kitchen counter. 

Bucky sighs, content with his work that day, and sits back on the couch with his guitar in hand. 

Tony had been nice enough to make it possible for Bucky to play his instruments with his new arm. He played keyboard, guitar, ukulele, banjo and the violin- his mom started him when he was young, obviously. His true love was the piano, but he loved the guitar as well, especially now that he had his own new acoustic one which he had bought at a music store near Stark Industries a few months back. 

He strummed, the strings hitting his fingers softly. He had his fingers positioned in a G Major, and strummed lightly, up and down and up and down. He sat there as he strummed, thinking of what to play. 

If he would be doing shows, hopefully, he'd need to figure out what songs he would play. Bucky stopped strumming and pulled out his phone from his front pocket, sliding it open and clicking on his music app. He started scrolling through, passing all his songs that he listened to every day. He stopped at Coldplay and scrolled through their songs, choosing to pull up the chords for Green Eyes. 

He strums, his fingers placed to play A Major, and starts singing. 

"Honey you are a rock," he changes positions to a E Major and then a B minor. "Upon which, I stand."

He replays the line, tweaking the strumming slightly. 

"I come here, to talk," Bucky's voice comes out louder, sweet and rough, "I hope you understand."

He replays the first verse again, the chords now familiar to his fingers. He looks over and memorizes the order of the chords for the chorus. 

"Green eyes, yeah the spotlight," he sings, "shines upon you."

He pauses, looks down to make sure he has it right, and starts again. "And how could anybody, deny you?"

Bucky pauses again, smiling at his success and starts singing more confidently. "I came here with a load, and it feels so much lighter than when I met you. And honey you should know," he strums a little harder, singing with his eyes closed, confident in his fingers to play the right chords. "That I could never go on, without you... Green eyes."

He strums, taking in the melody, and stops abruptly. He puts his guitar down lightly and goes searching around a box he left near the coffee table, for his notebook. He finds it thirty seconds later, and turns to an empty page and writes down "Green Eyes- find capo."

He puts the notebook down on the coffee table and takes the guitar back in his hands. 

"Honey you are the sea, upon which I flow. And I came here to talk, I think you should know," he continues where he left off. He plays it again, unsure, "and I came here to talk, I think you should-"

His stomach grumbles, and he stops playing. He gets up, huffing at his hunger and pads over to the kitchen, choosing to make ramen quickly like the loser living in Brooklyn he is. He takes a pot out from where he had put it a few hours ago, and turns on the sink to put in the water. 

Bucky places the pot on the stove and turns the heat on, waiting for it to turn to a boil. He walks back to the couch and picks up the guitar, putting the strap around him and positioning it comfortably. He starts walking around the apartment, playing the guitar lightly as he takes in his surroundings. He strums as he walks up to the big window at the end of the apartment. The window faced the street, and he was looking directly at what looked like some sort of clothing shop. It was a little below his view, being that he was on the third floor. He looked up to the sky, which was starting to turn pink as the sun began to set. There weren't any clouds in the sky, and the colors blended together, a canvas of blue and pastel pink and lavender and a little yellow and orange. It was beautiful. 

Brooklyn was spread out before Bucky; his old home, where he was from, where he belonged. But it didn't feel that way anymore, not really. Bucky just felt misplaced, kind of like he was plucked and dropped into this apartment. All he saw in front of him was raw emotion, busyness, physical connection and interaction, and Bucky just felt like he wasn't part of it all. He had no friends, maybe one if you include Tony, but he really had no one. 

Sure, he could go back to his childhood home, back to his mom and Rebecca, back to scraped knees and hot summers in the park and the Julie's Bakery across the street and the yearly neighborhood barbecue. But it felt wrong, it just did. Bucky knew that if he went, he wouldn't feel the same, he wouldn't be happy. He was too scared, scared that they would see him differently with his arm replaced with metal and his hair longer and his face older than it actually is. And the nightmares... he wouldn't want his mother and Rebecca to get scared, or worried, if he lived in the same home and heard his screams. 

So, really, living with the Barnes wasn't an option, making this apartment his only option. Maybe somehow, this apartment in Brooklyn would be his new home, an opportunity to feel human, to feel in general, again. It would be not a second or third chance, but a real chance, in making a life for himself. 

Bucky snapped out of his gaze, and walked over to the kitchen to check on the water. It was boiling, so he ripped open the package of noodles and poured them in. He went back into the couch and put his guitar back down, and walked back to the kitchen. 

He stirred the noodles, and added the flavor packet and stirred again. 

He sighed, thinking that this was probably going to be his life from now on. 

***

Bucky fell asleep on the couch around 9 that night, exhausted from the physical strain from the day. He woke up from a nightmare drenched in sweat, scared being in an unfamiliar place, but got a glass of water and went right back to the couch. 

He woke up the next morning around 6, old habits kicking in from the military when it comes to his damn circadian rhythm. He always woke up early, and a new apartment was no different. He sat up, groggy and half-asleep, and grabbed his glass from the coffee table and walked over to the kitchen, putting it in the sink. 

He looked around, there were some boxes and a bag of trash- already? Damn, it hasn't even been one day, Bucky thought. He folded up the boxes and tucked them under his arm, and grabbed the bag of trash and went on his way down to the entrance of the apartment, where he was instructed the day before to put his trash. 

He started walking down the stairs, singing the song he was playing last night. 

"I came here with a load," he hopped off the steps and turned the next case, "and it feels so much liiiiiightttterrr, than when I met-"

He bumped into someone. 

"Shit-"

The stranger was on the floor, one arm holding him up and the other on his stomach. Bucky dropped the boxes and the bag in his hands and bent down, offering the stranger his help when-

"Hey, I know you," Bucky recognized him as the man from the market who had told him about the bar with the stage. "Here, take my hand."

The stranger- Steve, he thinks?- grabs his hand and lets Bucky pull him up. He stands up, brushing his hands on his pants and looks up at Bucky.

"I'm sorry about that," Bucky bends down to grab his garbage. "I didn't think anyone would be up this early."

"Little distracted by the singing?" the stranger asks jokingly, and Bucky smiles. 

"Yeah, bad habit of mine, singin' everywhere I go," he explains, and the stranger chuckles. "I'm Bucky Barnes," he holds out his right hand. 

The stranger takes it and shakes, "Steve Rogers, I live on the second floor."

"I'm on the third, right above you I guess," Bucky says, pushing his hair behind his ear. "You probably heard all the moving yesterday, I assume?"

Steve laughs, and Bucky can't help but smile because this man has such a melodic laugh, so sweet and clear. "Yes, I did, and the singing, but I don't mind it, really. It's been quiet these last few years."

"Well, there's a lot more where it came from," Bucky chuckles. 

"Can I help you with that?" Steve asks, pointing to the big bag in Bucky's hand.

"Oh!- uh, sure, if you don't mind, it's no big deal, really-"

"I got it, don't worry," Steve smiles, and grabs the bag from his hand and gestures in front of them, telling Bucky to go ahead. Bucky starts walking, Steve next to him. "So, Bucky short for something?"

"Yeah," Bucky turns to look at Steve. "James Buchanan Barnes, my dad was a history nerd, apparently. Never liked James, so I always went by Bucky."

"Wish I had a cool nickname, I'm just stuck with Steve."

They turn the hall and they're at the door to the complex, and Bucky pushes it to go through. 

"Try having to explain what the hell Bucky is," Steve laughs. "Steve is a nice name, normal."

"It sound like a forty year old office dad name," Steve says dryly, and Bucky chuckles. They put down the trash, and Bucky turns around and walks back up the steps to the door. 

"Didn't know that was a thing," Bucky replies. "If it makes you feel any better, kids on my street used t'call me Fucky?"

Steve laughs his melodic laugh, and Bucky smiles at it. "That does make me feel a little better."

They're walking up the steps and they reach the entrance to the second floor. 

"This is me," Steve stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. "It was nice meeting you, again," they both chuckle. "You could come over any time, if you ever need anything."

"I would say the same for you, but all I've got is some ramen and a whole bunch of musical instruments," Bucky jokes, and Steve laughs. "See you around?"

"Yeah," Steve says quietly, and pushes the door open, waving a small wave and letting it shut behind him. 

Bucky is standing alone in the stairwell, struck by the sudden silence and lack of the slight echo. He stands for another few moments and then turns to keep walking up the stairs, singing to himself and thinking of his new neighbor, wondering where he was going before he saw him, and why he wasn't going anymore. And if Bucky thinks about his blue eyes, and his smile for more than a few seconds, well, no one has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so basically, this will be slow build af. it will alternate from Bucky to Steve to Bucky to Steve, so look out for POV changes. 
> 
> the song Bucky is singing is Green Eyes by Coldplay, the chords are accurate, I tested them out lol. 
> 
> anyways let me know what you think, leave comments and kudos, and as always, updates will be soon!
> 
> check out my other stucky Fic, it's called "melted away like I was free," it's more fluffy and has a different kind of feel and voice. anyways yeah! cool! bye!!


	3. that's what friends are for, asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> afterthoughts and put-off calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: for talks of suicide (brief and not serious), talks of PTSD, talks of nightmares/terrors
> 
> it's the last part of this chapter, you can skip it.

Steve slammed the door behind him and slid down against it, sat on the floor facing his apartment. His new neighbor- Bucky- was breath-taking. He had these striking blue eyes and this dark hair, it was pulled back, and he had this smile, God, his smile was so cute and-

"Snap out of it, Rogers," he commanded himself, and rubbed his face. He pushed himself back up and walked to the kitchen, where he was before he decided to go up on the roof and be anywhere but here, in his apartment. Of course, his new neighbor prevented that, and he could've gone after, but the words "This is me" came out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

Now that he thought of it, he probably looked like an idiot- Bucky must've realized that he was going somewhere, and then he just decides to go back home? 

Yeah, he for sure thought Steve was an idiot. 

Steve padded over to the big window and looked out to the sky. The sun was rising, the sky was clear save a few wispy clouds. Already, Brooklyn was wide awake, people walking on the sidewalks, doors to stores open wide, welcoming their potential customers. The hot weather didn't stop Brooklyn from being its endearingly busy self. 

Steve started biting his nails, thinking. Maybe he should go and invite Bucky over for lunch or something, be the nice neighbor he (never) is. Maybe it'd be too forward, maybe Bucky would think he was weird or maybe- wait, isn't that what normal people do for their new neighbors? Steve wouldn't really know, to be quite honest. 

Steve huffed and walked into the kitchen to make some coffee when he heard footsteps up the stairs, followed with singing- Bucky, Steve thought. 

The singing wasn't new, but now that Steve had a face for this mysterious voice, he couldn't help but listen closer.

He seemed to be singing the same song he was before, Steve didn't recognize it, but he was so used to it that he couldn't help but hum along. 

The footsteps were directly above him now, squeaking slightly but still careful. Bucky's voice was louder, and Steve recognized it's roughness and sweetness, two contrasting words that seemed to make sense in this situation. He looked up to the ceiling, smiling. 

He looked back down and grabbed the coffee pot, fixed on making himself coffee, but he found himself humming again, following Bucky's melody. He laughed quietly, and filled the pot with water. 

That's it, Steve thought, I'm gonna go over and invite him over one day. 

It wasn't like Steve to do this, he knew it himself. It wasn't like him to be interested in someone- even just platonically- and actually pursue it. But he decided to humor himself, and figured that the worst that could happen was Bucky would think he was a weirdo- and then, they'd just be living in the same building, that's it. So Steve had his mind set on it, to go over to Bucky's apartment later today and invite him over. 

But first, he had work. 

He sighed and poured his coffee in the mug he grabbed a few seconds before, and checked the time. It was only 6:15, he had a little less than three hours. 

So it was just another day. 

***

Bucky was back in his apartment, biting his nails- this better not become a habit, he thought- and deep in thought. 

This Steve guy was cute, Bucky thought, maybe I should invite him over for some sort of meal. And then Bucky realized the only sort of edible objects he had in his apartment were a half-empty carton of milk, some ramen, and cheese- and something else, but he was too lazy to look in the fridge. 

So clearly, a meal wasn't an option. And truthfully, neither was Steve, because Steve was a distraction- albeit a cute one- and distractions were not acceptable in his new music career-centered life. 

Who was he kidding, he was completely taken with this Steve guy and he barely fucking knew him!

"Dammit," Bucky huffed, and went to the fridge and grabbed a carton of milk. 

Bucky sat on the floor and drank the milk, thinking that whatever he would do, he wouldn't contact this neighbor of his, not unless he showed interest first. Sure, it was petty, and it wasn't like him to hold back, but this is who Bucky is now. 

Old Bucky, pre-army Bucky? Would've jumped for an opportunity to sleep with a guy like Steve, even at the first time he'd seen him. He would've flirted, unashamed at his obvious interest, and used his charm and smile to win the guy over. 

But now? Bucky just felt slightly empty, because he knew that he could fake it, he could really go for this guy, and totally win him over. But that wasn't what he wanted anymore. Truth, he didn't know what he wanted anymore, and it was frustrating as hell. 

Bucky plopped the carton down on the floor and crawled over to his guitar, dragging it back with him to his spot. 

"Honey you, are a rock..."

He strummed some more, his voice strong but empty, no feelings in the words he sang. 

"Upon which, I flow."

He lifted himself up and started walking around, unconsciously making his way to the window. "And I came here, to talk. Just thought you, should know."

Brooklyn was unfamiliar to Bucky, a shell of what he knew, a shell of what he was before. And dammit, Bucky just wanted to crack it wide open and make his damn mind up- who did he want to be, the Bucky from his past, carefree and charming, or the one he's trying to learn how to be now?

"Green eyes, yeah the spotlight," he sings, "shines upon you."

He was too scared, of who he was and who he is now and what everyone expected him to be. Because everywhere he went, people see him as this pitiful war veteran, metal for an arm and ragged hair and tired eyes. But that was the outside, and Bucky just felt fine now. He knew what was coming for him when he joined the army, and losing his arm wasn't losing a part of him to him. 

Leaving Brooklyn and changing, only to come back and see that it hadn't changed along with him? That was what he considered to be his loss. 

Because, again, his army-self and who he was as a kid were two completely different people, and Bucky didn't know what to do with either of them. 

"And how could, anybody... deny you..."

His voice was trailing off. 

He just wanted to know who the hell he was meant to be. He didn't want any of the pity or the hurt or the healing or anything- he just wanted to be. 

Be what? He didn't know. Bucky didn't fucking know, and it was frustrating him so much. But, Bucky knew that seventeen year old him would find a way to speak to this Steve guy again, and he didn't know whether he was still old Bucky, or whether this new version of him felt the same as he did. But he knew it wouldn't hurt to try. 

"I came here with a load..."

He figured he would knock on Steve's door one day and ask him if he wanted to come over for a beer and some takeout. Or maybe to grab a slice?

"And it feels so much lighter, than when I met you..."

Bucky looked down and saw his new neighbor exiting the building door and turning right and starting to jog. His long legs and their muscles showed through his shorts, and his tight white shirt nearly exposed his entire torso and chest. 

God, Bucky thought, this kid never learned how to dress properly, did he? But Bucky didn't complain, unashamed about the fact that he was checking Steve out and he started running. 

"And honey you should know, that I could never go on, without you..."

Steve paused and looked up at the sky, and then looked over to the building, taking his time looking at each floor. When Bucky realized what Steve was doing, he quickly moved back and leaned against the wall, peaking out slightly to see what his neighbor was doing. When Steve finally got to what Bucky assumed was the sixth floor, he looked around and then continued running, and Bucky stood back in his place in front of the window. 

"Green eyes..."

Yeah, he would definitely be going around to his new neighbor's place to invite him for a beer. 

***

"Hello?"

Steve had been at work for an hour now, he was done with one customer and had a break in between them and his next one. 

"Nat, hey," Steve smiles at hearing his friend's voice. 

"Steve! To what do I owe this call?" Nat purrs, and Steve can practically hear the smirk through the phone. 

"I just missed you," Steve insists, but he knew Natasha Romanov could read right through him. 

"Spit it out, Rogers," her voice was soft but stern. 

That was the thing with Natasha, she knew Steve better than anyone in the world did. They had met during his sophomore year of college, both having been in the same Art History class. They sat next to each other on the first day, and when Natasha caught a glimpse of his "doodles" in the middle of class, she passed him a note saying "you're quite the artist, kid. coffee after class?" And yeah, the rest is really history, because no words could sum up the extent of their knowledge, love and understanding of one another. 

"It's really no big deal, Nat," Steve starts, and he knows that she's rolling her eyes. "I just, have this new neighbor and I spoke to him and-"

"Wait, you actually came in contact with your neighbor, like... willingly?" Natasha asks, clearly incredulous and shocked. 

"Well, it was sort of an accident and I kind of made myself look ridiculously stupid, but that's not the point-"

"Wait, you said him!"

Steve sat back in his swivel chair in the back room, rolling his eyes. "Yes, Nat, it's a guy."

"Holy shit, you're interested," she doesn't ask, because she knows. She knows her best friend well enough to figure things out, even if nothing is said. 

"Nat, I think he's a musician, okay?" Steve says, exasperated. "I hear him upstairs and he asked about bars around here and I told him about yours, so if a guy named Bucky comes in and says I told him about it, give him a chance, please?"

"What does he look like?" Natasha asks. 

"Bright blue eyes, dark hair- its pulled back most of the time, from what I can tell. He's got a really nice smile, like one of those smiles that-"

"Yeah, you like him," Natasha cuts in. "Fine, I'll do you this one favor, if you come in some time this week."

Steve sighs, spinning around in his chair, "Fine, whatever."

"And you gotta bring this Bucky kid."

"No!"

"Oh, come on, Rogers," her voice is raised slightly, "what can you possibly lose? Just-"

"Bye, Natasha, love you," Steve teases, and he hears Natasha protest, but he ends the call with a smile and an eye roll. 

"Bucky, huh? You Americans have weird names," Wanda's voice is heard from behind Steve, who was at his "desk"- it was really just a table covered in designs and forms and pens and markers and everything in between. He swivels the chair around and faces her. 

"Did you have fun snooping in my conversations?" Steve raises an eyebrow. 

"Oh please, Nat would eventually tell me, and if not, I'd get it out of you," she says, and leans against the doorframe. 

"There's nothing to get out," Steve insists, and taps a pen on his leg repeatedly. "It's just, nothing."

"Keep saying nothing, Steve," she smirks smugly, and stands up straight. "It makes it more believable."

She waltzes away and leaves Steve staring after her. He turns around and goes back to work, finishing up a new design for a customer that had come in a few days ago. 

***

Bucky's phone rings, interrupting his daydream and his strumming as he sits by the window pane. More of the apartment was unpacked out, leaving a few boxes in the middle of the room and Bucky's things scattered everywhere. He had gotten bored of doing the same thing, so he grabbed his guitar and sat with a pen and notebook at his window pane, strumming and thinking- not of anything in particular. He had his notebook out in case any inspiration hit him, but no luck so far. 

He slid his phone out of his pocket and checked the number, but it was one he didn't know, so he hesitated slightly as he slid on the screen to answer. 

"James Barnes, who is this?" he asks. 

"Mr. Barnes, this is Sarah Palmer, I'm with the United States Department of Veterans Affairs. I've been told to contact you by one Tony Stark, he said that you were to be signing up for our group meetings. We have a center in Brooklyn, where the group meets on Thursday evenings from six to seven thirty."

"Um-"

"I have you on the list, if you give me your email I can send you directions as well as information regarding the group and its leader," she continues. 

"Ma'am, I'm not dealing with any problems or shit," Bucky retorts, suppressing the mental image of him waking up drenched it sweat, and the phantom pains in his arms, the ones he gets every once in a while. "Might've lost an arm, but I ain't tryna kill myself."

"Sir, that is a sensitive topic, and I am not qualified to deal with it. If you prefer, I can put you through with a qualified professional who can talk you through your qualms."

"My qualms," he emphasizes, "are perfectly fine, thank you very much, lady."  
He hangs up the phone and angrily scrolls to find Tony's contact information. 

Tony picks up at the second ring. "Stark."

"You little shit," Bucky growls, his guitar on the floor in front of him and he's pacing back and forth. 

"Bucky Bear, my one-armed wonder!"

"Stark-"

"Right, I gave you the second arm, gotta think of a new cool nickname," Stark quips. 

"Tony, why the hell did you tell the fucking VA that I'm having problems?" Bucky half-shouts. 

"Gee, Barnes, if I recall, you lost a fucking arm in a sneak-attack at war in Afghanistan, and you watched your entire squad get blown up to bits," Tony retorts sarcastically. 

"That's none of your goddamned business," Bucky growls, and clenches his fist.

"Once again, as I recall, it is my business, because I was there when you were brought home, I was the one who dealt with your sleepless nights and your nightmares and your inability to adjust to regular, damn civilian life. Buck, you downplay everything you've been through, you're living on your own when you still clearly need some help, whether you like it not," Tony says. 

"Fuck you, Tony," Bucky spews out. 

"In your wildest dreams, buddy. You're my friend, and I care about you," and Bucky softens at that. "A buddy of mine, Sam Wilson, works at the VA. He hosts one of the groups and I really think you should go check it out, at least one."

"Tony..."

"Come on, Buckaroo," he whines, "Pepper kills me whenever I don't have anything to say when she asks about you, just please do this for me?"

"So your motives are selfish?" Bucky snaps back, but he isn't as mad as before. 

"Yeah, and I built you a fucking arm, kiddo, so you're doing this for me," Tony states, and Bucky huffs. "And besides all of that, it could be helpful to talk about what you insist on denying actually happened."

"I'm not denying anything," Bucky insists, and he stops paving and leans against the wall. 

"Sure, keep telling yourself that," Tony says smugly. "Gotta go, Banner is bothering me about some new-"

"Yeah yeah, I'll talk to you later, asshole," Bucky smiles. 

"Six to seven thirty, this Thursday, you better not be late! I've got ears on the ground, Wilson is looking out for you," Tony exclaims, and hangs up a second later, leaving Bucky wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your lovely comments!!!! I hope u enjoyed this short little chapter of inner-monologue and a dialogue between friends. 
> 
> looking for a Beta, let me know if anyone is interested!
> 
> new chapter coming up soon!
> 
> follow my tumblr, user name "okbutmeasheck" and let me know that you read my fics!! all the love!! xxxx


	4. in the dark black night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> good things do happen at night, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: this chapter has a nightmare that takes place in Afghanistan- all events that take place are completely fictional, and might be completely inaccurate. Any similarities to real life persons are completely unintentional- this story is literally coming from straight out of my brain.  
> I did do research on what the war was like, and what really went down and some technical details. But the actual story is completely made up- albeit realistic and potentially similar to other stories that occurred. 
> 
> WARNINGS: for slight gore, cursing and intensity re: war.

Bucky was pressed down on the ground, his M16 digging into his ribs and stomach. The sky was no longer light when he looked up, meaning it had been at least twelve hours since he'd been forced to hide out in the ditch. He'd assumed the area was Taliban-friendly, but they had received false information. 

His mouth was dry, the dust reaching in and coating his tongue and inner cheeks. The three other soldiers with him were in the same position. They all knew each other, having been in the same squad for years; there was a sense of familiarity between them all. Yet, in all the twelve hours they spent in the hidden ditch outside of the village, not a single word was uttered. 

The air was hot, humid and sticky. Bucky's hair was plastered on his head and his body was sticking against his clothes. He shifted so he could wipe his brow, and looked down at his watch. It read 19:00, meaning another hour had passed. This meant that one of them had to lift themselves up to see if they were going to be signaled. He exchanged eye contact with the three others, silently telling them that he would do it himself. Bucky put his hands down on the ground and lifted his body up so that he was crouching; he positioned his weapon and then lifted his head over the edge to check the spot where the signal was to be made. He saw it, and then immediately bent down and signaled for the rest of his group to get up so they could go. 

They all got out of the ditch, and the four of them quietly made their way through the village, all clutching tightly onto their weapons. It hadn't been their first mission, not even close; their mind and their bodies knew what they were doing, knew the protocol. 

The four of them, including Bucky, reach the outside of the building in good time, and plastered their backs against the wall. Bucky turned to them and signaled them to move at his command, which was issued less than a minute later. They reached the edge, and one of the other soldiers, Jones, signaled them from inside the building to move. Dugan pushed Bucky forward and told him to go, and they quickly made their way to the other building. 

Bucky wiped his head and clutched onto his M16 tighter. The ten of them in the squad were together, all huddled against the building and completely silent. Dugan signaled them a few seconds later, and all ten of them hustled quickly through the door. 

The entrance room was quiet, Jones and Cohen shuffling through the stretch of it and signaling its okay. 

The ten of them sat down in different places, putting their weapons on safety lock and wiping their sweat away. 

"Shit, man," Izzy Cohen starts, "fuckin' starved."

Dum-Dum, previously referred to as Dugan, rolled his eyes. "We've been through longer an' worse, bitch," he teased. Jones, Pinky and the rest of them eased into the room, muscles relaxing and tenseness in their mindset slowly disappearing. 

Bucky didn't know why, but his body could relax. 

"I think we gotta message-"

That's the last Bucky heard before all the red. 

A loud crack, a crash of glass and screams were heard. 

The explosion came out of nowhere, completely unexpected since this was a quiet zone they were in. Bucky was thrown back, but he saw the walls torn apart into pieces, and his body hit something hard. 

He couldn't see, couldn't feel anything. The pain was so much, too much, and his body rejected it all. All he saw in his head was red. He looked up to the sky, for it was all his senses could detect. The rest of his body wasn't felt, it was only the sky he could see. 

Smoke appeared, and Bucky refocused and found himself about twenty feet outside of where the building was. It wasn't a tall building, only three stories, and he saw it all crumbled on the floor. And then he saw them, all his friends surrounding him, their bodies lifeless and torn apart. 

He felt his stomach turn, and tried throwing up, but ended up heaving air and choking from the pain in his lungs. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel anything but pain, pain so bad that it was no longer explainable. 

He cried out, yelling incoherently as he tried to push his body up, but there was no strength, no nothing. 

He told his brain to move his arms, to tell them to push him up, but nothing happened. 

Bucky looked down and saw nothing where his arm was supposed to be. And the tears were hot against his cold skin and his chest burned with the fear and all his friends were dead and-

He tried to move his arms again, but nothing happened. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lip too hard, which gushed blood down his chin and across his neck. 

It felt like hours. All Bucky did was scream and cry, he felt nothing and everything all at once. He eventually found himself unconscious, waking up a few minutes later to find his best friends lying dead a few feet beside him. 

"Oh, God," he cried out, and he looked beside him on the other side, trying to push himself up, but there was nothing there. 

He cried out, his throat burning and his voice nearly numb, his hand clenching onto the ground. 

"Help!" he cried out, repeating it again and again until his voice was gone. No one came for him. No one was there, except for the bodies surrounding him in the dust. Except for him. 

Bucky woke up screaming, clutching onto his chest and pushing himself up. He couldn't stop screaming, couldn't see anything in the dark as he felt around for the dusty ground. Instead, he found a soft blanket under him, followed by a bed.

He couldn't remember where he was, but he wasn't screaming anymore. His chest was pounding, his body shaking with fear. 

"Where am I- wha-"

He was panicking now, his body in a place he didn't know. 

"Wh-"

A light. 

It passed over his face. and Bucky looked in its direction to see a window, and the shades over the window. The window belongs to his apartment, the apartment in which he lives in, in Brooklyn. 

Far away from Afghanistan. Far away from the graves of the bodies of his friends. Far away from the place he lost his arm. Far away from the place where Bucky turned into some(thing)one else. 

Bucky was breathing more evenly now, but the nightmare had hit him hard, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep the rest of the night. He threw his legs over the bed and lifted himself up, his muscles aching and his chest hollow. He checked his phone- 3:56- and slumped back. What could he do with himself at four in the morning?

He stood up and looked around. Then he remembered.

He remembers him being a kid, he'd have his happy days and sad days, and on the latter, he would climb up to the roof of his house and sit by himself, reading a book or playing his old ukulele. Bucky decided that he would find a way up the roof of the apartment building. He grabbed his guitar and left the apartment, going to the stairs and slowing climbing his way up. 

On the sixth floor, at the end of the hallway, a dark green door sat in its inanimate silence. 

Bucky turned the knob, but it was locked. He turned harder, and then twisted his arm, jerking the knob one way while putting pressure on the other way. He tugged, and the knob broke with a snap. 

"Oops," he commented dryly, and let himself through. 

He went up the staircase and found himself on the roof of the building. He turns back and looks down at the stairs which brought him up there.

The roof wasn't windy, just a light breeze. It was empty, spare some big metal thing with a fan- good one, Bucky told himself, that was a really intelligent observation. 

Oddly enough, there were steps that followed to a platform, which reached a ledge at the corner of the roof. He made his way there, guitar in hand, and quickly went up the steps and sat himself down on the small platform. It was only a few feet wide and long- maybe five feet? He sat at the corner, his feet dangling on the edge. 

He looked out and saw Brooklyn in its uneasy peacefulness. It looks fake, Bucky thought, as if it were ready to explode into chaos. And Bucky knew that in the morning, chaos would happen and people would be awake and the lights would go on and stores would open; and Bucky knew that he would still feel misplaced. 

He took a deep breath, it shuddered, his body still shaky from the nightmare. He brought his hand up to his mouth and started biting his nails unconsciously. It took him a few minutes to realize what he was doing, and when he did, he yanked his hand away from his face and scowled. 

He needed a distraction. He racked his brain for a song to play. He sat his guitar properly and started strumming lightly, his fingers positioned in a D major. 

"I walked past the bleak walls of an architect's un-imagination," he switched to G major and then back to D. "Returning to the venue where we had our very first conversation..."

"To see you again, to be your friend..."

His voice faltered as his fingers stopped moving, but he regained his focus. 

"To hold, you in my mind," he strummed, his voice slightly hoarse as he sang the words to the song. He had heard it playing over the speakers at a shop when he was back in Manhattan a few months ago, and fell in love. 

"Well, I arrived here early and as always you, swanned in much later..."

The shop was quiet, save the low music and the worker at the time shuffling around and fixing things up. Bucky remembers her humming to the sweet melody, singing along. By the end of the song, he was singing along with the chorus. 

"As if nothing had never changed, you nod at me and order your double and mixer... to see you again, to be your friend, to hold you in my mind."

Bucky thought of Brooklyn, his old home, and felt that their reacquaintance was similar to what he was singing about. Nothing had changed in Brooklyn after the years he was gone, everything was the same and it just felt so... the same, yet it also felt so foreign. And he didn't know what to do with himself. 

"Leaving it up, leaving it up, leaving it up, leaving it up to you..." he sang quietly, repeating it again. 

But it wasnt up to Brooklyn to change, it was up to him to let himself accept who he was now. 

***

Steve was an idiot, he knew it and did not deny it. 

He did say he would go to invite his new neighbor over that night, he knows, but technically, no one heard him, so no one had to know that he completely chickened out and sat in his room avoiding the apartment door, the one he should've been leaving out of to go and see his new neighbor. 

And now it was... two? Three? Steve didn't know what time it was now, he knew it was past midnight, though, so that was close enough. 

He was restless. 

His bed felt warm under him, having been sat in for hours now. His notebook was on his lap, yet nothing was sketched on the page in front of him. He sighed, putting the pencil in his hand on top of the notebook and slumping back in his pillow. 

He could try and sleep, but he would never wake up the next morning, he knew it. So he sat for a few minutes, looking up at the ceiling and contemplating going up to the roof. 

"Ugh, it's too far away," he grumbled, rolling his eyes a few moments later at his laziness. 

He usually went up there when he wanted to just be out of the apartment or needed a change of space. So he pushed himself up and got out of bed, slipping on socks (not shoes, because he didn't care) and grabbing his notebook and pencil. He left the room, left the apartment and made his way up the stairs. 

When he reached the sixth floor, he saw at the opposite end of the hallway that the door was already open. 

"Huh," he huffed, and padded his way towards the door and pushed it wider. 

Steve heard singing- familiar singing, oddly enough. He looked around, but it was too dark to see anything. He goes up the stairs and hears the singing a little more louder. He walked a few feet further and saw a figure sitting on the platform connected to the steps- that was where he usually sat and drew. He walked a few feet further and heard the voice clearly, and it took him a moment to realize it was his new neighbor. He silently cursed whatever higher power made this happen.

"Um-"

His new neighbor jumps at the sound of Steve's voice. He turns around with wide eyes and his mouth opens a little, in shock. 

"I'm- I'm sorry, I'll go-"

"No-no, wait, I'll go-"

"You were here first-"

Bucky stops him, looking at Steve intently, and smiles. "I'm sure we can both just sit here and do our things, no?"

Steve lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and walks a few feet further, tentatively, so that he was right by the steps near the platform. "Yeah," he breathes out. 

Bucky moves over a foot to the side and pats on the platform, indicating to Steve to sit. Steve smiles, still in shock at his new neighbor being in front of him, and lifts himself onto the platform and sits criss-crossed, facing the view below them. 

"You come up here a lot?" Bucky asks quietly, looking down at his guitar. 

"Y-yeah. I was coming up here when we met earlier- well, yesterday," he smiles, internally groaning at his awkwardness. "I usually come up here to draw."

"I won't come here anymore, if this is your spot, you know?" Bucky says, and strums lightly. 

Steve ignores Bucky's comment and turns to him. "Play something for me?"

"I- I don't-"

"If you're gonna be playing at bars in front of audiences, then you gotta start somewhere, no?" Steve smirks, knowing Bucky wouldn't say no to him. 

"Yeah," Bucky smiles, looking up to the sky. "My voice isn't too great right now, though."

Steve flips to the page he was (not) working on before, avoiding Bucky's eyes. "I've heard you, you're good."

"The walls have their way of making me sound a lot better than I am," Bucky chuckles dryly. 

"Doubt it," Steve retorts, and he feels Bucky smile at him. "Play something."

Bucky grumbles in agreement, and positions his fingers. "Any requests?"

Steve looks up, pausing, "The Beatles."

"They're a band, not a song, Steve," Bucky deadpans, and Steve shoots him a dirty look, causing him to laugh. 

"I'll kick you out of here, man," Steve threatens, and Bucky laughs a little harder. "I meant anything by them, loser."

Bucky stops laughing after a few moments, and smiles at Steve warmly. "Okay, Steve."

Steve rolls his eyes, but his stomach is warm and his heart is pounding. Bucky is thinking for a moment, and then he starts playing. And Steve can't deny it, but Bucky just looks so good as he plays, looks so natural and so at peace. 

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night," he starts, his voice coming out roughly but mellifluous. "Take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life."

Steve can't help but stare, because in front of him was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

"You were only waiting, for this moment to arrive."

Steve looks down, aware of Bucky now looking at him, and he picks up his pencil and hovers over the paper. 

Bucky continues playing, "Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see," his voice comes out softer, and Steve can't help but look up, completely enamored. "All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free..."

"Blackbird fly," he sings stronger, and Steve puts his pencil down, now just staring at Bucky, completely enamored. "Blackbird fly, into the light of the dark black night..."

Now Bucky was looking down, playing and concentrating on his guitar, "Blackbird fly... blackbird fly."

He continues playing for a few moments, and the song stops abruptly. Steve looks up and he can see Bucky's face turning red. They make eye contact for a moment, and then Bucky looks down. 

"Um- I don't really know that song so well, so-"

"You're incredible," Steve says, his voice stronger than he anticipates. "It was perfect," he insists.

Bucky looks up, his face red from embarrassment. "I'm really not," he says quietly. 

"You are, trust me," Steve says, voice matching Bucky's quietness. 

Bucky looks up, and his body shifts. "Okay, now you draw me something," he demands, voice louder. 

Steve chuckles, and looks down. "I need inspiration," he jokes. 

Bucky puts his guitar down in front of him, and lies his body down on his side, arm up in the air and a sly smile on his face. "Draw me like one of your French girls."

Steve looks at his and starts laughing, and Bucky smiles as he lifts himself back up and grabs his guitar. 

"Okay, I will, but only if you go back in that exact position," Steve jokes, and Bucky leans over and shoves his shoulder jokingly. "Okay, okay! Fine, look natural, though."

"Like this?" Bucky asks, and his leg is high up in the air- and damn, he's flexible, Steve thinks.

"Yes," Steve responds seriously, and Bucky rolls his eyes and put his leg back down. "I'm kidding, just play your guitar or something."

Bucky looks down and puts the guitar back on his lap, fingers positioned and strumming. He stops, turns his body to face the street below him, and the light from the moon is shining behind him and all Steve could think is that the man in front of him was truly the most beautiful man he had ever seen. 

***

"So this is where you fell, and I am left to sell..."

Steve looks up and he puts his pencil down. 

"The path that heaven runs through miles of clouded hell, right to the top," Bucky was singing, and Steve is looking at him, not wanting to disturb him. He pushes the notebook toward his neighbor and just watches him. "Don't look back, turn in the rags and giving the commodities a rain check-"

He stops playing and looks down, his mouth agape. He takes the guitar strap off of him and puts it to the side and grabs the notebook. "Holy shitballs, Steve."

"Is it okay?" Steve asks, searching Bucky's face for an answer. 

"Okay? Fuck, it's awesome," Bucky looks up at him with a crooked smile. The picture depicted him sitting on the platform, playing he guitar and looking down. His features were soft, but the details were impeccable. "You're so- shit, you're incredibly talented at what you do."

"Thank you," Steve says, blushing. It wasn't the first time he heard it, but hearing it from the man with blue eyes and a beautiful smile in front of him- it felt different, it felt genuine. "I meant to ask you-"

"We should hang out again, sometime," Bucky says, not realizing that Steve was starting to talk. "Oh- sorry, you first?"

Steve laughs, and throws his head back in fake exasperation. "That's what I was gonna say, actually. Was g'nna invite you over for dinner," he admits, and Bucky smiles.

"I would like that, Steve," he responds, and Steve smiles back, completely taken by his new friend. 

And when they're watching the sun come up, and Steve is watching Bucky instead of the sky, well, no one has to know- right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs:  
> Leaving it up to You- George Ezra  
> Blackbird- The Beatles  
> It's Time- Imagine Dragons (based off the acoustic iTunes session version)


	5. a dork, a dweeb and everything in between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> steve has to face reality, and it turns out that bucky seems to know exactly what he's feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cue the sadness, the lowkey flirting and pizza

Steve walked into Maximoff's to find Natasha, Wanda and Pietro at the counter, talking animatedly with one another. They became silent when Steve walked in and the door swung closed behind him. 

"Um," is all he says. 

"Morning!" Wanda says cheerfully, and Steve cringes at her energy because it was nine in the morning. 

"Good morning?" he says, utterly confused. 

"Hi Steve," Natasha says, and Wanda just smirks. Pietro is fiddling with something in his hands, looking down. "So," she starts, "here's the deal."

"Wha-"

"Friday night, you're going to bring this new neighbor of yours to Shield," she explains, and Wanda nods in agreement. 

"Is this a damn intervention?" Steve asks, grumbling as he walks forward and grabs the clipboard of the schedule off the counter. 

"Yes," Wanda says simply, and Pietro rolls his eyes. 

"I'm not bringing Bucky to Shield and letting you three bombard him with your annoying-ass questions and assumptions," Steve nearly growls. 

"Damn, someone's getting defensive," Wanda shoots back. "Just invite him."

"He was gonna come anyways, no? So just bring him yourself and we can all hang out with your new friend," Natasha says casually, and walks over to the door. 

"He's a grown man, Nat, he can go himself," Steve insists, but the idea was growing onto him. 

"Friday, nine o'clock at Shield," she replies, and swings the door open and waltzes away. Steve turns to look at Pietro and Wanda. 

"You had something to do with this?" He half asks, half accuses. Pietro doesn't answer and walks to the back to his office, busying himself with something. 

"What's the big deal, Steve?" Wanda asks, and Steve huffs. 

"The big deal," he emphasizes, "is that there's no big deal to be made. He's just a friend, we barely know each other. And all you guys are doing is bothering me about him as if it's this huge deal."

"But-" Wanda starts, but a voice interrupts. 

"I get why they're making a big deal, Rogers," Pietro calls from the back and walks back into the room. "It's been four fucking years and every time I try to ask you out or we both try to hang out with you, you shut us down-"

"Wha-"

"-and now, you're finally fucking talking to someone other than us, so they want to know what's so special about him that you make that much of an effort. Because you never made that effort for me, Wanda or Natasha. And I don't blame them for wanting to know, because it's been years and no matter what I do, I'll never fucking be good enough."

The room was silent, and Wanda was looking down at her feet. 

"Pietro-"

"So yeah, that's why they're making a big deal," he says with finality, and storms back into his office and shuts the door behind him. Steve's jaw drops and Wanda looks up at him and sighs, and turns to do work at the desk. 

"Wanda-"

"I'm not taking sides, anymore," she responds, "I'm sick of seeing him hurt and you being oblivious to how much we actually care."

Steve looks around the room, and turns and leaves. Leaves who he thought were his friends, leaves his work and leaves what he always knew. He starts walking fast, walking past Natasha and bumping into her, not even bothering to apologize. He then starts jogging, and then breaking into a run, not stopping as he crossed the street. 

He runs and runs and his mind is so full of Pietro's words, of anxiety and fear. Because he just left work, he just ditched his friends and he just doesn't know what he's doing anymore and he doesn't know what he feels in his head- his heart? 

What was it? His head or his heart- which one ached for the feeling he got in his chest when Bucky smiled at him? Which one wanted to hold someone tight?

His chest started burning, a foreign feeling for Steve. He only ran faster. 

What did Pietro mean, asking him out? Pietro never really expressed interest, never wanted anything more from Steve and- oh. 

Oh. 

Fuck. 

Steve stopped running, looking around and vaguely recognizing where he is. He crouches down, hands on his head and eyes shut closed. I ruined everything, I still ruin everything after years of being here, I ruin everything, he thinks. 

He stifles a sob, and bites into to his hand to avoid anymore crying. "Shit," he sobs out, and gets up and starts running again, running back to his apartment. His body knew where to take him. 

It was less than ten minutes later and he found himself back up on the roof, crouched into himself on the platform and sobbing into his arms. Because this is who he is, he'll never be good enough for anyone, for Wanda and Pietro, for Nat, and for Bucky, who he never even had the chance to prove himself to. 

Steve starts hiccuping, heaving slightly and his chest is aching for the first time in years. He looks out to see Brooklyn in front of him, alive and bustling, and it only hurts more. He grimaces at the pain he feels and runs his hands through his hair, tears falling down his cheeks as he silently mourns the loss of his friendship with the only three people he had known for these last four years. 

***

Bucky is busying himself around his apartment (what's new) when he peaks down at his phone screen and notices the time, his mind realizing that he was supposed to go to Steve's in- shit, fifteen minutes. 

Bucky drops the pile of shirts he had his hands and rushes to the bathroom, determined to take a shower and shave the stubble growing on his face within the next ten minutes. 

Bucky stumbles out of the bathroom eleven minutes later, towel hanging off his hips and running his hands through his hair as he rushes to his room, fumbling to find a decent shirt to wear. If he was trying to impress Steve, well, it was kind of obvious, but he didn't care. 

He chooses a tighter white shirt than what he normally wears and his dark jeans, and quickly slips on his leather lace-up Clarks and stood in front of his bathroom mirror, trying to tame his hair as it insisted on sticking up in like, a thousand different places. 

He had decided it was time to get a haircut that day, because his hair was honestly a mess. So now he stood in front of the mirror, his hair still long but only reaching the nape of his neck, the shorter pieces falling in his face. He pushed it back in a half-hearted attempt to tame it, but gave up and sighed at he gave himself one last chance to look in the mirror, and then shut the bathroom light and grabbed his phone from the coffee table and shut the apartment door behind him. 

His heart was beating in his chest as he made his way down the stairs and quickly walked to Steve's apartment. He took a breath and then knocked. 

He stood for a minute, but there was no answer. He knocked again, a little louder, but again, no answer. 

He waited a moment, holding his head to the door to hear any movement, but heard nothing. 

"Steve?" He called out, and there was still no answer. "Shit," he deflates, thinking that Steve must've forgotten about their dinner tonight. "Steve!" he calls out one more time, but he knew that there wouldn't be an answer this time, either. 

He leans against the door in defeat, reaching out to play with his hair, but is met with air, realizing that it wasn't that long anymore to play with when he was nervous. He stands for a minute, unsure what to do with himself, when he thinks that the second place he would look for his new neighbor would be the roof. 

He made his way back down the hallway and into the stairwell, quickly making his way up to the sixth floor. The green door to the staircase up to the roof was wide open, so Bucky quickly walked to the end of the hall and went up the stairs to the roof. When he made it up, he looked around. 

That's when he saw him. 

"Steve?"

His neighbor- no, his friend- was sitting on the platform, shoulders hunched over and elbows digging into his legs as his hands sat in his hair. He didn't turn around at the sound of his name. 

"Steve, are you-"

"Go away."

Bucky didn't listen, slowly making his way forward. He heard a sniffle and his heart ached, unsure what was happening but determined to find out. 

"Steve-"

"Bucky, please," his voice faltered, and Bucky knew he should leave, but he couldn't move. 

"I'll leave once I know that you're okay, Steve," he pleaded, and Steve looked up at him and Bucky froze in his spot. Steve's face was pale, save his eyes that were a fiery red. The bags under his eyes were dark blue, and his lips were chapped and bright red, looking as if they were chewed on.

"Shit," Steve pushed his body up and stood, wobbling slightly on platform. "Our plans, I-"

"Don't matter," Bucky says, walking toward Steve and pushed his body onto the platform, and Steve sat back down, his legs drawn up to his chest. "You don't have to tell me what happened, you don't hafta trust me, but I'm here if you want to talk."

"Shit, I'm sorry, Bucky," Steve rubbed his eyes sleepily, and all Bucky wanted to do was wrap his arms around the man sitting opposite him. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I checked your apartment, and figured this must be the second place to look for you," he shrugged, wringing his wrists shyly, and Steve smiles. 

"Bucky-"

"It doesn't matter, the dinner," Bucky insists.

"Would it matter if I told you that it's the only thing I got goin' for me right now?" Steve says, looking down, and Bucky lurches forward and wraps his arms around Steve's neck. It took Steve by surprise, but he lifted his arms from his legs a moment later, and wrapped them around Bucky. They sat there, both in what would look like uncomfortable positions, but their hearts were respectively bursting in their chests. 

Bucky slowly pulls back, and Steve looks down. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have do-"

"Thank you," Steve says, "I needed that."

Bucky smiles back, and stands up. He brushes his hands on his legs, and then offers Steve a hand. Steve reaches out, and Bucky pulls him up, still smiling.

"Pizza?" 

Steve laughs and nods, and wipes the stray tear on his face away. 

***

"Wait, so you're telling me you actually tattoo people?"

Steve chuckles and takes a bite of the slice of pizza in his hand. His eyes weren't as red anymore, and his skin wasn't as pale anymore. He and Bucky were in his apartment on the couch, sitting across from each other. The pizza had come a few minutes before, and he had honest-to-God, never seen anyone eat a slice so quickly. 

"No, I put tattoos on people," Steve says smugly, and gets a kick in the shin as a response. "Yeah, I... I work at Maximoff's, it's a few avenues down."

"That's fucking awesome," Bucky replies, mouth full of pizza. "I've always wanted a tattoo, never had th' balls to get one."

"I could do you," Steve says, and blushes at Bucky's cocky smile. "I mean- dumbass- I could tattoo you, if you want."

"Really?"

"Yeah, just tell me what you want and-"

"I want you to design it."

Steve looks up at Bucky, who is looking at him intently. "Yeah, okay, but you gotta tell me what you want."

"No, I want you to do whatever you want to me," Bucky says, and this time it was him who started blushing at Steve's sly smirk. 

"Okay. I'll do whatever I want to you," Steve says with a serious look on his face, and this time, the kick was harder. "But seriously, you can't actually expect me to do whatever I want, you gotta have some say in it!"

Bucky's blue eyes are staring right into Steve's, and Steve's stomach churning, and he knows it's not the pizza. "No, I trust you," he says quietly, and takes a bite of pizza. 

Steve looks up at him and smiles, and Bucky smiles back. "Okay."

"This pizza is good," Bucky says quickly, and Steve feels guilty. 

"I was supposed to make dinner," he whines, and Bucky rolls his eyes. "No, stop, I was gonna make somethin' good."

"Okay, Mister Chef," Bucky jokes, "you can make us something next time. I jus' feel guilty that I've not got any skills in the kitchen."

"Well," Steve swallows his bite, "how 'bout since I'm making the food next time and I'm designing a tattoo for you, you sing me whatever song I want, whenever I ask."

Bucky snorts, "you like my singing that much?" he jokes. 

"Yes," Steve says, and he's completely serious. 

"Fine, it's a deal," Bucky smiles, and Steve laughs as his friend holds his hand out for him to shake, which he does. They continue eating in a comfortable silence. 

"You- Steve," Bucky says quietly, "I'm here if you want to talk about what happened."

Steve looks down, putting his pizza slice back on his plate on his lap. "It's nothin'."

"Are you sure?"

Steve looks back up. "No."

"So tell me, I'll listen," Bucky says and his brow is furrowed, and he's not pushing Steve, but rather inviting him in and telling him that he would be there for him. 

"I- I don't," he starts, and rubs his eyes. "I don't know what it was, honestly. It was just a conversation between me and m' friends, we were at the shop, and one minute we were fine."

"But the next minute you weren't," Bucky says, and Steve nods. 

"All I've had these last four years since school were Wanda, Pietro and Nat," Steve rubs his neck, "and it turns out that I haven't been good enough for them."

Bucky is quiet, and he reaches for Steve's hand, holding onto it tightly. "They said that exactly?"

"No, but it felt like that," Steve admitted, and Bucky held his hand tighter. 

"I haven't known you long, but I know for a fact that you are beyond good enough, Steve. I'm sure your friends feel the same way," Bucky says softly, and Steve looks down. "But, I'm here for you, no matter what."

Steve scoffs, "you barely even know me."

Bucky pulls his hand back, "I know that you don't sleep at night, and you sit up on the roof and stare at the sky. I know that you blush whenever someone compliments you, and you don't think that you're fucking ridiculously talented, but you so are," Bucky starts, and Steve looks up to Bucky and meets his eyes. "And I know that you're nice, you're hilarious and you're a fucking dweeb. But, I know that you would be there for me if I was the one of the roof tonight."

Steve looks back down. 

"I'm not wrong, am I?" Bucky continues. "You would've been there, and you would've dragged me off that damn platform and sat m' ass down at insisted on me telling you what's wrong."

Steve smiles, "you're a dork."

"And you're a dweeb," Bucky says, and ruffles his friend's hair. "And you're my friend now, whether you like it or not. So you gotta know this shit, you gotta know that I'm here for you."

"Sap," Steve teases, and Bucky shoves him. 

"I'm tryna be nice and shit, don't ruin my moment," Bucky mutters, and Steve laughs as he grabs Bucky's pizza and takes a big bite. "Hey! You've got your own damn pizza!"

"Yours is better," Steve says seriously through a mouth-full of pizza. 

"They're the exact same thing, loser," Bucky grabs Steve's off his plate and takes a bite. "There, now we're even, dweeb."

Steve laughs, and Bucky smiles at him as he swallows the bite of pizza. 

"You want to hang out tomorrow night?"

Bucky freezes, like he's caught completely off guard. "I've- um, I've got something."

"Oh, okay," Steve says, looking down sadly. 

"It's..."

Steve looks up, and Bucky seems to be struggling with what he wants to say. "Don't worry about it, you're not obligated to hang out with me."

"No, that's not- fuck, Steve, that's not it," Bucky rubs his hand over his face. "It's nothing, I've just got somethin' to do, but can we please hang out on Friday?"

Steve's face lights up, and shit, Bucky thinks, I'm so screwed. "You wanna? I was thinking I could make dinner and prove my cooking skills," Bucky laughs. "And we can watch a movie?"

Bucky smiles at his friend, "That sounds awesome, Stevie," and Steve smiles- whether it was at the new nickname or at the idea of their plans, Bucky didn't know and didn't care, because he knew now that he would tear the world apart just to see that smile again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed two chapters in one day. I know they're both pretty heavy chapters, but too bad lol. 
> 
> new chapters should be up soon, so be on the look out. also, follow me on Tumblr, my username is "okbutmeasheck" and I'm super lame.


	6. restless halcyon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a night of sleep, a day of dialogue and a glimpse of desires. 
> 
> also, meet Sam Wilson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: the stories written in this chapter are completely fictional and are not related to anyone or anything whatsoever. All stories are completely made up and from my own imagination. Details may be inaccurate, because they are, yet again, COMPLETELY MADE UP. ok you get the idea. 
> 
> WARNINGS: brief mention of rape/sexual assault, violence in war, PTSD and depressing thoughts. You may skip the last part of the chapter, it doesn't affect the story line too much. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve sleeps a full night of sleep for the first time in two months. His body is restless, not used to sleeping for more than four hours at a time, yet he finds as he wakes up that he can see a little more clearly, both physically and mentally. 

He dreams of blue and grey, and a strong metal arm holding him tight. 

***

Bucky's nightmare that night was different than the one he always dreamed. As he lays on the dusty ground in the ditch, beside him, the body felt different. It wasn't Dum Dum or Jones, it was a larger figure with lighter hair and pale skin. 

Bucky looked over and saw Steve. He was different, his cheeks burnt from the hot sun, the bags under his eyes more prominent and dust coating the rest of his face. But his eyes were the same, bright blue and wide, staring at Bucky intently. 

The nightmare continued as usual, but he found himself trailing nearer Steve as they quickly made their way to the village. He feels Steve's blue eyes on him as they stand in the room altogether, the eleven of them. And he only looks at Steve when Jones and Dum Dum talk, watching his small smile. 

And when the explosion happens, and Bucky is a distance away from the crumbling building, rather than searching for the arm he can't feel, he desperately looks around him for his friend. 

Bucky sits up in bed, breathing heavy and sweating all over, his pajamas and sheets sticking on his body. His heart is beating fast and his entire body is buzzing, as if it were itching to explode. His brain is near panic, he could feel incipient anxiety bubbling in his stomach. He touched his metal arm to his mouth, the coolness reaching and grabbing him, bringing him to complete awareness of where he was.   
In the meantime, his other hand was clutching the thin, cottony sheets that had ended up under him sometime during that night. 

Bucky was breathing hard, his chest tight and constricted. He was so cold, his body shivering as the cool air surrounded him and the sheets under him gave a sense of stability. But his body was hot, too, sweating and sticking to any given surface. His hair plastered to his forehead, and Bucky instinctively reaching out to feel the length of it, but there was nothing down the length of his hair, only warm skin and cold sweat. 

"Shi- shit," he was barely breathing. He slumped against the wall, running his hand through his hair and looking up to the ceiling. His body was so tired but his brain was jumping from thought to thought. 

Why was Steve in this dream, Bucky wondered. Why now, does my dream completely change, after months of the same day on repeat, over and over and over again, the same blood and bodies and dust and-

Bucky tugged the sheets under him and pulled them up on him. His actual blankets had ended up on the floor, so he leaned over and grabbed them, tossing them haphazardly over himself. He leaned back against the wall, only slightly sitting up and already feeling the exhaustion beat the fear of a nightmare. 

Why was Steve there? Why was Steve in his dream? Why were his eyes looking at me, why did he smile at me like...

His eyes were resisting the exhaustion, but eventually he fell asleep, Steve's name on his mind and his eyes and God dammit, he thought right before he slipped into unconsciousness, why was he in my dream?

***

As Steve walked to work, he felt an odd, overwhelming sense of calmness and carefreeness. Maybe it was because he had gotten sleep the night before, maybe because he knew the world (his friends) was/were ignoring him and he could walk around and think in peace. 

The fight- if that's what it was, Steve didn't really know- with Pietro, Wanda and Natasha (he isn't sure if Nat even knows what happened, but like Wanda had said, she told her everything) occupied his mind. And it definitely caused him anxiety, no doubt. But it also felt as if it were part of different lifetime, a separate world. Maybe it was because he knew if he truly needed something, his friends would drop everything to help- and he wouldn't hesitate to do the same, despite what they thought. Or maybe it was because it wasn't a fight, rather it was just some truth spilling?

(Or maybe because he knew that the next day, he'd still see Bucky).

He crossed the street and waved hello to   
one of the vendors he's acquainted with. 

His feels were so paradoxical and contradicting; he felt calm and scared, he felt blissful and disturbed, languid and stiff. Unfamiliar to him, he mentally toed the line where one feeling sat next to its opposing other. 

Outside, the sun's reflection was dulled by the clouds, which weren't wispy, rather they were long and smooth, occupying the whole expanse of the visible sky. The air was sultry, the mugginess was nearly tangible, sticking to Brooklyn in the most oppressive of ways. The streets radiated heat, the surfaces of benches and chairs all dangerously hot and everyone's temper was heated, and people were scowling and sauntering and wiping the heat off their warm bodies. It was early in the morning, and the heat was to only increase. Without the breeze, it became unbearable. It was universally known (in Brooklyn, at least) that by midday, weather advisories would be urging everyone to stay inside if they can, and drink water and eat and all that jazz. But, Brooklyn on a Thursday morning wouldn't let the heat stop it, even if it meant a shitty mood and sticky skin. 

A few minutes pass and Steve finds himself standing in front of Maximoff's. But the door, he knew he had to pull the door in order for it to open. 

He breathes in and out, clenching his fists, and then reluctantly pulls the door open and feels the cool air brush against his body. He walks in, and lets the door swing close behind him. Steve looks around, but no one was there. He looks down at his phone in his hand and turned on the screen, which read 10:57. He was right on time, practically. 

"Hello?"

Steve heard some bustling in the back, and then Wanda's head popped out from the back room. "Steve."

"Hi," he said tentatively, and slowly made his way to the counter. Wanda moves her body toward the counter gracefully, a box full of wipes in her hands. 

"I did not think you would come," she states. Steve looks down, face red from embarrassment. "Pietro went to an automobile show today, it is in Pennsylvania."

"Oh."

She puts the box down on the counter and goes around to check something behind it. "We're not taking any customers today, so you can go home. I am merely cleaning around," she says nonchalantly, but Steve knew the truth. This wasn't an everyday thing, let alone something that has ever happened before. They never cleared appointments last minute, rarely ever doing that itself in general. 

"This is all my fault, Wanda- I-"

"It is not anyone's fault, Steve," she bends over and pulls something from the lower shelves of the counter. "Pietro wanted to go anyways, and he needed a break from this place. I don't blame him."

"What do you mean?" Steve was biting his nails. 

"We might close down the place for a bit," she calmly elaborates, and bends over again. "Just a few weeks, nothing crazy."

"Wan-"

"It's not your fault, Steve, I told you already. We're all overworking and we need breaks, from work and from each other."

"Bu-but, Wanda, we can't just," he's sputtering the only words that can reach his mouth. "But, the money an-and the-"

"We all know that we can go a few weeks without working, and the place can afford it," Wanda points out. "Steve, it's best for all of us."

"This isn't- why didn't-" he didn't know what to say. "Why didn't you tell me that you were thinking of this?"

"Because I was avoiding this," she points at him as an explanation. "It's a few weeks starting today, and you'll be fine. It isn't your fault," she stresses. 

"Fine," he scoffs. "See you in two weeks, then."

And he's out the door before she can say another word. 

***

When Bucky got home that night, it was after his first (and unfortunately, not last, he nearly mourned) group therapy whatever session thing at the VA in downtown Brooklyn. He had taken the subway for the first time since he'd gotten home, and the entire time he'd clung onto the pole and clenched his jaw and sweat profusely, awaiting the obviously-nonexistent danger. 

(When he had gotten off, he nearly collapsed on the floor and kissed the damn thing right then and there).

The building wasn't all that impressive; it was four stories tall, a dull brown brick and hidden among more impressive and rather appealing buildings and stores. Bucky had showed up twenty minutes earlier and paced in the lobby of the VA building- it must've been a common sight, because the secretary didn't even give a second glance at him. When the clock on the wall of the left side of the lobby struck six o'clock, he followed the signs to the meeting room and reluctantly pushed the door open. 

He had recognized a few faces from the lobby when he was doing his thing- that being the anxiety-produced pacing- and sat in the last row in the back. The room wasn't big or small, the walls were bare and the chairs were stiff from lack of use. Bucky had looked around to examine his surroundings, took note of the windows and all the exits. Then, he had decided to look at every individual person. 

He remembers the first man he saw, he was dressed in normal clothing and he had a baseball cap on his head. But Bucky looked closer and saw a scar that ran from the tip of his eyebrow to the middle of his chin. This man had later walked up to the podium, sporting a limp, and introduced himself as merely Joe. He had talked about his PTSD, and explained that he couldn't sleep at night because of his nightmares. 

Bucky had flinched when he saw the man nearly stumble and fall as he came down from the podium. 

Bucky remembers seeing a woman standing in the corner of the room, and she tentatively sat down in the chair near her after thirty minutes of the session. She didn't say anything, but Bucky remembers the tears staining her face when she heard another woman talk about being sexually assaulted when she was in Iraq. 

Bucky had clenched his fist at that woman's struggle, and itched to storm up to her and demand to know the person who did it to her. But he didn't. 

He also remembers vividly the old man sitting up in the front, he was old and wrinkled and couldn't walk, being forced to use a wheelchair to wheel himself up to the front. Bucky remembers when he went up, remembers everything that he said. 

"I was in the second brigade, ninth division as a volunteer. I only volunteered because it was inevitable tha' I would be chosen," his voice trembled as he went on. "I had watched m' friends all die, and I had to come 'ome and lie to their mommas, tellin' them they sons had died peacefully an' quickly- but it wasn't true, no. It was a lie and they'd knew it themselves. An- and, it wasn' easy, being a vet back in those days, no it wasn't. You would walk on th' streets and be mindin' your own business and they'd spit at your face and trip you at your feet, yes they woul'. 

"An', they'd curse you for being an animal and a killer, but all I 'ad done was follow orders, I did what I was asked, that's it!" His voice cracked at this point, and Bucky gripped tight on his jeans. "And, lemme tell you young-ins, please listen and please understan' me clearly- a war will never solve no problem, it will not. But so'times we'd gotta do what were asked, and we can't say no. But it wasn't yours fault wha' you did back where you served, because you did what you was asked and you served your country, I'm tellin' you! And don't make the same mistake I did," tears were running down his face, "please do not, don't do what I did. I blamed myself for wha' I did, I let it bubble up in me and- an' I just let it sit there, I didn't get the help I needed- mostly b'cause the help we get t'day wasn't given to us back when I was your age. 

"I know it's what you 'ear all these days, but I swear t' you it's true- what you did wasn' your fault. And you could get help, because it'd be 'appily given to you until you don' need it no more, yes."

The man balled his fist and pounded it on the arm of his wheelchair, and then wheeled his way down as he pounded it lightly, his knuckles white and his face pale. 

What Bucky remembers most is the man who he quickly learned to be Sam Wilson. 

He was dark-skinned, tall, a kind smile and warm eyes. His voice was steady and welcoming, and he somehow managed to speak to everyone individually, even if he wasn't speaking to them directly. He had smiled at Bucky when he had walked in the room, and Bucky had quickly rushed to the back. And when he concluded the meeting, he managed to reach Bucky's eyes and acknowledge his presence yet again, with a small smile and a nod of his head. 

When Bucky reached the door of his apartment, he was lightheaded and breathing heavy, his mind was swarming with the images of different faces and stories. And if he cried himself to sleep that night, he silently prayed that Steve couldn't hear. 

***

(Steve heard, and he had to fight the urge to run to his friend's apartment door and tear it down to comfort his friend and wipe away his tears. 

He didn't.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out my other fics, click my account name and go see! as always, leave kudos. COMMENTS GIVE ME LIFE, LITERALLY ARE SUSTENANCE FOR ME. 
> 
> (hope you enjoyed, lemme know what u think. new chapter soon.)
> 
> Also, big thank you to Ivy, for all her wonderful and hard work and her sweetness. 
> 
> ps: I may potentially have a beta, will keep you updated on that. 
> 
> my tumblr is okbutmeasheck, go check it out and talk to me, I'm bored af.


	7. what we never knew we needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a detailed account of Friday morning to Saturday afternoon. 
> 
> package includes: hatred for bitter coffee, pizza making, panic attacks, shrek 2, more panicking and good friends with sandwiches. 
> 
> shipping?: yeah, thats included.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: for panic attacks/PTSD, negative outlook on oneself
> 
> I know this chapter is really long and kind of mushed together, but it was intentional. I want you readers to get a feel of how Bucky and Steve feel, how everything happens at the same time and how that leads to confusion and a lot of emotions. because I find in fanfics, emotions are often separated into different parts, as if they exist separately. but they don't, they all come at once and everything happens at once. so therefore, I present to you, chapter 7!
> 
> enjoy!

Bucky didn't get out of bed the next morning, rather he sat in his pajamas and looked up at the ceiling for however long it was. And he ignored the sun that was trying so hard to fucking blind him. His throat was parched, but it also was emitting a soft throb from pain. His eyes were dry, his skin felt cold and his head was pounding. 

So, just your average Friday morning. 

When Bucky finally decided to get up, he checked the time on his phone on the bedside table, which read 11:32- shit, its almost the afternoon, Bucky thought. He lifted himself out of bed, changed into jeans and a t-shirt, brushed his teeth, and then padded into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee, which he wanted to be strong and really sweet. He took out a mug, and turned on the coffee pot by plugging it in. When he finally poured the coffee in the mug, it took him about seven seconds to realize he didn't have sugar. 

"Aw, fuck," he whined, and slumped against the counter. He could just drink it without sugar, but he was too petty and wanted a whole bucket of sugar in the mug. 

(His mom used to ask him if he wanted some coffee with his cavities, and he always responded with a tongue sticking out of his mouth. Bucky laughed at this memory). 

So what could Bucky do, except go up to his neighbor and ask him for some damn sugar?

And that's how James Buchanan Barnes found himself in front of Steve Roger's apartment door not even a minute later. And he knocked, too. Steve opened the door a few seconds later, and Bucky blinked. 

"You're home," he states, and Steve looks at him confused. "I just- it's almost noon."

"Hello to you, too, Bucky," Steve says, and gestures for him to come in, which he does as he clutches onto his coffee mug, surveying Steve's face. "What's up?"

"Coffee."

"Oh... kay?" Steve is looking down at the mug, and then looks back up at him. "Coffee?"

"Sugar, I need, I don't- I don't have any," Bucky grunts out, and Steve nods, finally understanding. He walks over to his kitchen and opens up a cupboard, and takes out a bag of sugar, dumping it on the counter. 

"Help yourself, weirdo," Steve teases, and then walks over to Bucky and ruffles his hair. "Long night?"

Bucky responds with a grunt and pads over to the counter, and takes the bag to pour some sugar in his mug. 

"I'll take that as a yes," Steve hums, and goes over to the counter and leans over on it, watching Bucky. "And, since you asked so kindly, I have off of work for two weeks, since I screwed up so badly with my friends and they don't want to be around me."

Bucky sips his coffee and sighs, finally content, and looks at Steve, now completely aware of everything and fully conscious. "So, two weeks of eating food and drawing for me," he jokes, but Steve nods enthusiastically. "I was kidding, Steve."

"I'm not," he says casually. "We had plans for tonight, but we never set a time. So who says we can't start now?"

Bucky considers this for a moment, and then nods with a small smile. "Thanks for the sugar, sugar," he winks, and then plops himself onto Steve's couch. 

"Oh, sure," Steve rolls his eyes, "make yourself at home," he grumbles, but Bucky sees the smile on his face and smiles back. Steve grabs an apple from the bowl on his counter, and then plops down next to him. "Want lunch?"

Bucky sips his coffee again, and then looks over at Steve. "We're two grown ass men sitting at home on a Friday afternoon," he muses. "You bet your sweet ass I want lunch."

"Stop looking at my ass, number one," Steve jokes, "and number two, what do those two things have to do with one another?"

"Shut up," Bucky grumbles, and downs the rest of his coffee. "Make me food, Rogers."

"Happily," Steve hums, and then lifts himself up and puts his hand out. "But you gotta help," he says pointedly, and Bucky grumbles and nods, and then puts his hand in Steve's and lets his friend help him up. 

(Both of them ignore the warmth of the other's hand, as well as the desire to hold it longer).

(Steve's hand lingers for a few seconds longer, and Bucky doesn't mind, holding his hand tighter and then letting it go with a smile).

*** 

"Steve, how the fuck do I-"

"Just pour it in, Buck, it's not that hard."

"Yeah, but what if I fuck up the measurements?"

"Just-"

"Also," Bucky puts down the bag of flour, "why do you have every single ingredient necessary to make pizza?"

Steve stops stirring the sauce in the pot, "I invest my money wisely," he says casually, and then starts stirring again, brow furrowed. Bucky laughs at him and picks at the bag of flour. 

(Steve had actually went out the day before on his way back from work, and bought all the ingredients necessary, determined to make the next day a good one).

(He would never tell Bucky that, though).

"Not gon' lie Stevie, you're a weird one, alright," he chides. Steve rolls his eyes and stirs again. "Oh, I see how it is, mister chef," Bucky smirks. 

"See how what-"

And that's when Bucky takes a handful of flour and throws it at Steve, aiming for his shirt but ultimately getting everywhere. 

"Bucky!" 

"What, it's just a little flour," Bucky exclaims, and cackles at the sight of Steve, who is holding his spoon up and sulking, covered in flour from his neck to mid-torso. 

"You're a terrible friend," Steve retorts, and grabs a handful of flour and chucks if at Bucky's face. "There, now we're even," he smirks. 

"Oh," Bucky moves in closer to Steve, "it is so," he puts his hand on the latter's chest, "fucking," he puts the other, "on."

And then he pushes Steve back, who grabs a handful of flour and dumps it on Bucky's head. Bucky tackles Steve, who is cackling at the sight of his friend covered in flour. He pushes Steve down to the kitchen floor, and grabs his arm and pins it down on the floor. 

"Fu-"

He grabs the other arm and pins it down, but Steve thrusts up and knees Bucky's back, which causes him to falter. Bucky groans, and then Steve pushes him back. Steve is now straddling his hips, sitting on him as he holds down Bucky's arm. Bucky resists, but Steve moves up his arm, and now his hands are pressing into Bucky's shoulders. 

"I got you, you fu-"

Bucky is frozen is his position, his body completely stiff and his face unreadable. Steve looks down with a smile on his face, but it quickly drops when he realizes something is wrong. "Buck-"

Bucky shoves Steve away, and Steve lands on the floor a few feet away. Bucky's eyes are wide open, moving rapidly as he looks around. He pushes his body up and stands, feet apart from each other and fists clenched on his side. Steve looks up at him, confused at what was happening. 

"Bucky, are you-"

Bucky looks down at Steve, and his body crumbles in defeat, and he's on the floor curled into himself, arms wrapped around his knees as he rocks back and forth. And he's whimpering quietly, his face is between his knees and his body is shaking. Steve crawls over carefully, as to not touch his friend and shock him. 

"Bucky?" he calls for him, voice soft and shaky, but Bucky doesn't respond or acknowledge him. "Buck, it's me, Steve, you're okay, you're here with me."

Bucky is rocking back and forth, his breathing is heavy and fast, and his whimpers softer. "Bucky, breathe in and out. Listen to my voice, l-listen to my words." Bucky responds with a growl, and his body is shaking more as he rocks back and forth faster. "Bucky, it's me, I'm here and you're safe. No one will hurt you, just breathe."

Bucky is shaking, but his breathing slows down. "Bucky?" He looks up, and Steve's sees utter fear in his eyes. "Bucky, you're okay, you're okay."

A minute passes, and Bucky is clawing at the floor, trying to grip something that isn't there. His rocking slows down eventually, and he looks back up at Steve. 

"Steve?"

Steve looks at him, and Bucky breaks down crying again. Steve crawls over and wraps his arms around him, and Bucky lets him, melting into the touch. "It's me, Buck, you're okay, you're with me."

They stay like that for nearly twenty minutes, Bucky crying and Steve silently wiping away his tears and whispering soothingly. Bucky stops shaking, and stops whimpering, and looks up at Steve. 

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, his voice low. 

"No, Buck, you didn't," Steve said. 

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, and pushes away from Steve. "I should- I should go, I am-"

"No!" Steve exclaims, and sits up in his spot. "You don't- I- you don't have to be sorry, Buck, there's nothing to be sorry about," Bucky looks down. "And we still have pizza to make, you dweeb."

Bucky huffs out a small laugh, and Steve smiles. "That's never happened before, in all the time since I've been home, you know," he says, and Steve looks at him curiously. "I've had nightmares, I've had flashbacks, but I've never..." his voice trails off. 

"You don't have to explain anything to me, Bucky," Steve says, and he slides over on the floor near Bucky. 

"It's," his voice comes out rough and cracked, "it's so fucked up, I can't-"

"You served, right?" Steve asks, but Bucky doesn't answer. "I wanted to serve, but I was too sick all the time to even try. My dad had served and I had it in m' head that I would be just like him. My mom begged me to erase the idea from my head, but I was a persistent little fucker, always picking fights when I knew I would lose."

Bucky looks up at Steve, who was smiling to himself. 

"I ended up being too damn sick to even try, and at the time when I wanted to, my foster parents didn't help me even try," he explains, and Bucky blinks at him, confused. "Even when I grew and got in shape, I was always too sick, you know?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Bucky asks, and Steve chuckles. 

"I don't know," he admits. "But I am right, aren't I?"

Bucky doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at Steve. "Yes," he nearly whispers. "'s how I lost m' arm," he grumbles and shoots a dirty look at his arm. "I... I, well, we... there was an explosion, we thought it was a quiet area, not Taliban-free, but definitely quiet."

Another minute passes. 

"We were wrong," his voice comes out thick. And Steve moves closer to Bucky, and they're sitting shoulder to shoulder against the stove. "What happened just now... it never happened before," he says quietly, "I'm sorry you had t' deal with it, Stevie."

Steve looks at Bucky, "don't apologize, I told you there's nothin' to be sorry for, Buck."

"Steve, I'm fucked... I'm so, I'm so fucked up, Stevie," Bucky grumbles, and brings his knees to his chest. "You shouldn't be friends with me, I'll just fuck your life up."

Steve laughs, and Bucky looks up at him, confused. "That's funny, I would say the same thing about myself to you," he chuckles. "We're two grown ass men sitting in a kitchen, on a Friday afternoon. Bucky, who gives a shit."

Bucky laughs at that, and Steve shoves his shoulder lightly. "We're both fucked up a little," Bucky says, and Steve laughs again. "Thank you, for what you did for me."

"Oh, quit it drama queen," Steve shoves him again, and ruffles his hair. "Next time, no playing with your food, pal," he gets up and wipes flour off his shirt. 

"You sound like my mother," Bucky grumbles dryly, and lifts himself up. "Now, enough wasting time, lets make this fucking pizza," he says, and Steve laughs at Bucky's determined face. 

"Alright, Buck, but don't fuck up the measurements," Steve says, which earns a shove from Bucky. 

***

Bucky bites into his pizza, and let's the sauce dribble down his chin as he moans in the bite. "M'holy shit, Steve, dis pisha ish sho goom," he practically caresses it. 

"What the hell did you just say, was that English?" Steve swallowed his bite and then grabs his cup and takes a sip of his water. 

"Shut up, I'm having a moment," Bucky takes another bite. "Fuck, ish sho fuckin' goosh," he moans, and Steve rolls his eyes. 

"Dweeb," he simply says, and gets kicked under the table. "Anyways, once your done making love to your pizza, we have to choose a movie to watch."

The pizza had taken two hours to finish, mostly because Bucky kept on swiping the bag of cheese and then running around the apartment while Steve chased him, and also he spent half an hour trying to get pizza dough out of his hair when he tried tossing it like "one of those cool pizza dudes who work at the pizza place in that show- you know what I'm talking about, the show with the-" and the pizza dough fell on his face. When they put the pizza in the oven, Bucky insisted on sitting in front of the oven and watching it bake, which Steve rolled his eyes at but agreed because Bucky was practically bouncing up and down as he watched the cheese melt and it was kind of adorable.

(When Steve called him a puppy, "because you're so adorable bouncin' up and down like that, Buck," Bucky flicked his forehead. But he didn't care).

It was now four o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun was shining brightly through the window ("Buck, it's just the sun, stop running away from the window- I swear to god, you're a damn puppy"). They sat across from each other at the table and ate their respective seven slices of pizza (each, after all, they're grown ass men, dammit). 

"We're watching Shrek 2, we already discussed this, Stevie," Bucky swallows another bite. 

"We're not fucking watching Shrek, you dumbass."

They ended up watching Shrek 2, and fall asleep on the couch across from each other, feet just barely touching. 

Bucky rouses from his sleep, slightly put off at the sight of his surroundings. He checked the time on his phone, it was around seven at night. He nudged Steve, who responded by turning his body away. 

"Steve..." he nudges him again. "Steve, get up..."

"Wha- Bucky, I was sleeping," Steve whines, eyes still closed. 

"I'm gonna go, Rogers, I'll-"

"No, don't go," Steve's eyes are wide open, staring intently at Bucky. He sits up and faces Bucky. "We can still do something, h-how about-"

"G'night, Steve," he says, and starts turning around and walking away. 

"Bucky?"

Steve's voice is small, but Bucky turns around and looks at him. 

"You're a good friend," he nearly whispers, and smiles shyly. 

And Bucky fights the urge to run back to him and hug him tight, because this isn't a damn romantic movie, and happy endings aren't all what they seem. 

"You too, Rogers," he smiles back, and walks to the door and closes it behind him. 

"You're my best friend," Steve whispers, but no one is there to hear it, the door is shut behind Bucky and the room is empty, and all that is left is Steve on his too-big couch and the hum of refrigerator. 

***

Steve wakes up the next morning on his couch, his neck is all kinds of fucked up, and his face has a mark that was pressed in from his pillow. He sat up groggily and rubbed his eyes, and leaned over to grab his phone and check the time. He remembers that its Saturday so no work and-

Then he remembers that he doesn't have work at all, not for the next two weeks, at least. Damn Wanda and her stupid "breaks," now Steve wouldn't be on a schedule and he'd end up eating breakfast at 5 o'clock in the afternoon. And then yesterday's events come back to him, flooding every corner of his brain and suddenly, all Steve wants to do is hide. 

Hide because in all of his last four years, he had never been so comfortable and open with someone the way he had with Bucky, and it was fucking scaring him. And Wanda, Nat and Pietro were right, he couldn't deny that anymore. They were right because... because...

Shit. 

They were right all along, about him and Bucky. Because he opened up to him and trusted him. But why? Fuck, why did he do it why didn't he restrain himself like he did with everyone else? What made Bucky so special?

He turns his phone back on and slid the screen open, and quickly dialed the number he needed. A few tones pass and then the line picks up. 

"Hello?"

A few moments pass. 

"Hello? Is anyone th-"

"It's me."

Another few moments pass, followed by a sigh. 

"Steve, I was wondering when you'd call me," Natasha says thoughtfully. "Is everything-"

"Nat-"

"Dude you gotta stop interrupting me," Nat huffs, clearly frustrated. Steve sits up on the couch and runs his hand through his hair. 

"I have to apologize to you," Steve says, but he wasn't sure whether it was a question, a confession or a statement. 

"For what?"

"For being a terrible friend for the last seven years I've known you," Steve says quietly. 

"Steve..."

"Pietro and Wanda were right all along, okay!"

"Right? About wha-"

"I don't know why I'm opening up to Bucky, I don't know why I just let him in and let him see all the shit I feel," he's half-shouting by the last word. "I don't... I don't fucking know."

"Wha- Steve, what are you talking about, kid?" Nat's voice is filled with concern, and now Steve is confused. "All I know is that Wanda called me two nights ago and told me that you guys wouldn't be working the next few weeks, and then last night I figured you must've chickened out."

"You... she didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" she exclaims, her voice loud. 

A few moments pass, and Steve realized he's holding onto the cushion of the couch, his grip tight. 

"I fucked up, Tasha," he said, quietly, using his old nickname for her. He hears a small gasp, and then a sigh. 

"I'm coming over."

"What! No-"

"Be there in twenty, don't bother running away, 'cause I know all your hiding places, despite what you believe," she states, and then hangs up the phone. 

Steve slumps back in the couch, in defeat and in confusion, and runs his hand through his hair. He looks down at his phone and then scrolls to find his contacts, scrolling again to Bucky's number. He selects it and then opens up the message app. 

He types- "I'm having"- and then he erases it, unsure of what to say. He starts again- "good morning!"- and then erases it again and groans in frustration. He tosses his phone to the other end of the couch and flops back into his end and sighs. 

***

To say Bucky was freaking out, would be a slight understatement. Because Bucky wasn't freaking out, no, he was not. He was having a freakin' midlife crisis- he wasn't even twenty six years old, but midlife seems adequate. Yeah, Bucky was having a midlife crisis, and it's been hours and Bucky has been pacing back and forth in his apartment and praying for the bubbling anxiety in his stomach to fuck off. 

He had literally fallen asleep in a stranger's- no, his friend's- apartment, and this is not okay, because how had he been comfortable enough to actually fall asleep next to a man he had met less than a week ago? And sure, he had left before he had truly fallen asleep and not the next morning, but it was the first time he fell asleep- since Afghanistan, at least- and not waken up from a nightmare soon after. 

Bucky was fighting the urge to text this Steve Rogers guy and tell him to fuck right off, but he knew that wasn't what he wanted. 

Because what he wanted made no sense whatsoever, because how he managed to come down from a panic attack merely from the sound of a man's voice, how he managed to open up to him and tell him the truth about why he never slept anymore, and how he fell asleep next to him a while later... that just made no sense whatsoever. Because putting so much trust in this one guy made no sense and wanting to see this guy again made no sense, and feeling like he was already his best friend after less than a week made no sense either. 

But, what made Bucky confused the most, and what made the least sense, was that Bucky wanted to do it again. 

Fuck, he wanted to do again, so badly. It was weird, he knew it, but he wanted to sleep next to Steve again, and what could he do about it except freak out? And maybe it was the idea of a warm body next to him, or maybe it was just Steve himself, Bucky didn't know. He didn't know. It made no sense to him, but he couldn't deny it. 

He walked over to the coffee table and picked up his phone, and stared at the black screen. He stared for a few moments and then turned it on, and slid to unlock and clicked on his contacts. "Steve Rogers" sat on his very short list of contacts, and Bucky paced back and forth, unsure whether to call him or to just shove the phone in his pocket and completely ignore it. And fuck, Bucky thought, how could I just do that to him, panic in front of him and put him in such an uncomfortable position? Shit, maybe I scared him off, he thought. Maybe the guy thought he was a total whack job and secretly wished he went home after it happened? How could he have been so stupid, stupid enough to let Steve see him like that? Why had he gone to him in the first place, yesterday morning? Why didn't he just drink the damn coffee the way it was, and met up with him later and just watched the movie and then left?

"Damn it," he groaned, and tossed the phone to the couch. How could he have been so fucking stupid? He ran his hand through his hair, but it felt odd to the touch, not long anymore. He had spent most of this past week thinking about this guy, and he hasn't done anything productive with his life. 

And shit, he has to stop calling Steve "this guy," because he was actually Bucky's friend- he couldn't deny it, after all that Steve had done for him that past week. He couldn't deny anything anymore. He knew he wanted to be next to him again, he knew he cared about Steve, and he knew that he could trust him. 

And God, it went against every fiber of his being, but he knew it was the truth. 

***

"So you're telling me," Natasha pauses, "you're telling me, that you didn't know about Pietro's big fat gay crush on you?"

Steve was sitting on his couch, his legs crossed, and eating the sandwich that Nat had brought for him. She had come over a few minutes earlier, and rolled her eyes at the sight of her friend sulking around his apartment. She sat across from him on the couch, handed him a sandwich and watched as he ate. 

"No, sorry, I didn't get the fucking memo," Steve retorts sarcastically. "Or was it an email?"

"Ha, very funny, Rogers," Nat rolls her eyes. "I just assumed you knew, it was kind of obvious."

"Not to me! I didn't even know he was gay and-"

"He's not," Nat states, "he's actually bisexual." Steve blinks at Nat, who picks the sandwich out of his hands and takes a bite. "I assume you don't reciprocate the feelings?"

"Why would you- don't you start with the whole 'I have a crush on Bucky' thing," Steve grabs the sandwich and shoots her a dirty look. 

"I wasn't gonna say that," she smirks, "but now that you've mentioned it," she folds her arms and leans back into the couch, "you have a crush on Bucky."

Steve groans in frustration, and tosses the sandwich in its wrapping on the couch. "No I don't-"

"Hey, you're the one who said it," she smirks again, and Steve rolls his eyes. "And also, you said before that you think you're a terrible friend, but you should know, Steve..."

Steve blinks and cocks his head, confused. 

"You're a good friend, Steve," she leans over and squeezes his arm. "You're a good person, too."

"Nat-"

"Don't say anything to ruin the moment, dumbass, just eat your damn sandwich."

Steve smiles goofily and shakes his head, and picks up the sandwich and rips it in half and hands a piece to Nat, who grabs it and takes a bite and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPCOMING: Clint Barton coming back to town, unexpected knock(s) at the door, denial and a lot of frustration (mostly for you readers, lol) 
> 
> Leave kudos and comments, they keep me alive! Let me know what you think of this chapter, it's a bit different and I might change it if it's too complex. So please, let me know!!


	8. the recovery/loss of innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ninja turtles and pancakes, guitar strings and a sound-turned-experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: PTSD, flashbacks, violence, gunshots and explosions. 
> 
> THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION- any connections to real life people or stories was completely unintentional. also some details may be inaccurate, but just... whatever ok? shhh.

It wasn't until Monday morning that Steve's life became interesting again. That isn't to say that he wasn't moping and moaning the whole rest of the weekend, but the more notable event in his life occurred around 7:38 on a Monday morning in June. 

It all started with a knock- well, actually, two. 

Of course, Steve heard it, because he had been up since the night before drawing in his notepad. So when he heard the knock, he looked up from where he was sitting and started to get up. But that's when he heard a lighter knock, followed by a "shhh," which made Steve a little worried but nevertheless, he got up from his spot on the couch and padded over to the door, opening it up slowly. 

"Hi!"

Steve was looking down at a little girl, maybe five years old. She had long brown hair, big brown eyes and a gap where her two front teeth should've been. She sported a plastic pink crown and purple dress, fluffed up and covered in glitter and sequins. Her shoes were black converse, which had neon green laces which stood out against the rest of her already loud outfit. 

"Um-"

"Hey, Steve, I'm sorry," a deeper voice made Steve shoot his head up, and in front of him was a man, a bit shorter than him, with brown hair and a kind face. "I'm Scott Lang, this is my daughter, Cassie," she looks up at him and smiles. "We live on the floor below you?"

"Oh! Hi, yes, we've met before, a few times," Steve says, but he's quite unsure of what to say any further than that. "Uh-"

"Listen, I know this is really weird to ask, and you could totally say no," Scott rushes his words. "But, I have to go to work and Cassie's normal babysitter is sick with the flu, and I've got no one to watch her- and I know that this is really- yeah, this is freaking weird, and like-"

"Do you need me to babysit her?" Steve asks, and Scott nods his head quickly. 

"I'm not a baby, though," Cassie points out, and scrunches her face up in disgust. 

"This is totally weird, I know," Scott runs his hand over his face. "And like, you can say no, I understand. And also, I swear I'm not an irresponsible parent or anything, because you like, barely know us," he's rambling on, "but I'm desperate and you seem like a nice guy."

"You're very tall," Cassie cocks her head, and Steve laughs, mostly out of nervousness. 

"I can do it, I've got no plans today," Steve shrugs, and then Scott literally hugs him, squeezing him tight, and then lets go a few moments after. 

"Dude, you're a freaking superhero," he says, and Steve blushes, at both the hug and the comment. "Cassie knows my number, she'll give it to you. I'll be back by three-ish, four the latest. She's not allergic to anything and she likes drawing and Ninja Turtles and-"

"Daddy, go! I think Mister Steve and I will be fine," his daughter pushes him away, and he starts walking. 

"If she starts misbehaving, just tell her that she won't get to see the new movie coming out," he starts half-shouting as he walks down the hall. "Also, it's- shoot, I gotta- just call me if you have any questions, I have to-"

"Bye Daddy!" 

And suddenly, Steven Grant Rogers and a little girl named Cassandra Lang were standing by the door of his apartment, looking at each other. And then Steve realizes that he's responsible for the life of a- how old was she anyways?

"How old are you, Cassie?" Steve asks conversationally. 

"I'm five years old and seven months," she says, reciting it off the bat with a hum. "I gotta go to the bathroom, may I use yours?"

"Oh-" Steve was being pushed to the side as the little girl makes her way in the apartment. "Yeah, it's the door over there," he points at the bathroom door. 

"Thanks, Mister Steve," she says with a toothy smile, and skips over and goes in, quietly shutting the door behind her. 

"Shit, shit," Steve mutters, and looks around for his phone. "Shit- I should not be saying shit when a kid is here- shi- fuck-" He grabs his phone from the floor near the couch, and slides it open and clicks on Bucky's name, bouncing up and down as he prays that he answers. 

A grunt is heard on the other line, and Steve nearly drops to the floor out of relief. "-'lo? Steve?"

"Bucky, there is a five year old girl in my apartment and I have no experience with kids and I need your help before I by mistake feed her cat food and poison her and she dies," Steve rambles out, not breathing. 

"Do you even own a cat?"

"That's not the damn point, Buck," Steve groans. "I need your freakin' help, I don't know what I'm doing and-"

"Okay, okay, I'll be there in like, two minutes," Bucky rushes out, and Steve sighs in relief. 

"You're a lifesaver," he breathes out, and then hangs up the phone. Cassie is standing in front of the bathroom door and is looking up at Steve intently. "So, Cassie, what do you want to do?"

"Who were you talking to on the phone?"

"My friend," he responds. 

"What's your friend's name?"

"His name is Bucky, he's gon' come over for a little bit and hang out with us, is that okay?" Steve asks, and Cassie cocks her head. 

"Yes, that's okay," she responds, and walks over to the couch and climbs up on it to sit down. "I have a friend named Bobby, he's nice and sometimes he picks his nose, but I tell him t'stop because it's imp'lite to do that, that's what Miss Andrews told me."

"Miss Andrews is very smart, then," Steve responds. 

"Yes, she is. She says she went to school for a bazillion years, and people who go to school hafta be smart, right?" Cassie cocks her head again. 

"That's right, but sometimes people are smart even if they don't go to school," Steve says, unsure of what he's going on about. 

"That's cool," she says, and she crosses her legs. 

Steve was about to open his mouth, but a knock echoed through the room and that meant that Bucky was here. The knock saved him from a weird conversation, and he was sure that Cassie would find Bucky interesting. He rushes over to the door and opens it quickly, to find Bucky wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt and sneakers. "You called?" he smirks, and Steve rolls his eyes and smiles. 

"Thanks for coming," Steve responds, and Bucky smiles back and walks in the apartment. Cassie gets up from the couch and walks over next to Steve. "This is Cassie Lang, I'm watching her for the day."

"My dad had t' go to work and my regular babysitter got really sick," she says. "The last time she came over, she was getting snot all over her face, it was so gross!" she's cackling with laughter, and Bucky is smiling down at her. 

"Hi, Cassie," he says, and crouches down to her height. He puts his hand out, "I'm Bucky Barnes, nice to meetcha." She puts her hand out and shakes his, and they both smile. Steve is looking down at the scene unfolding in front of him, and he can't help but smile. 

"You've got pretty eyes, Bucky," Cassie says, as-a-matter-of-factly. 

"And you've got a cute smile," he responds, "so there y' go!"

"Do you like Ninja Turtles?" she asks. 

"My favorite is Raphael," he responds, and ruffles her hair and stands back up. 

"I like Michelangelo," she says, and walks over to the couch and plops down again. "Mister Steve, can we watch Ninja Turtles?"

Steve is dumbfounded by Bucky's ability to be so casual with the little girl, but he quickly snaps out of it. "Y-yeah, sure."

"Bucky, can you come watch with me?"

Bucky smiles, and leans over to whisper in Steve's ear. "She likes me better," he teases, and then jogs over to the couch and sits next to her, and grabs the remote. 

And all Steve could (try not to) think about is the warmth the spread through his body when Bucky came close to him, and the hot breath near his neck. 

"I," he stutters out, "I'll make some breakfast. Do pancakes sound okay?"

Bucky and Cassie cheer in response, and Steve forgets about the warmth in his stomach at the sight of the two of them together, bickering over which episode to choose. 

***  
When Bucky had picked up the phone at the sound of it ringing, he hadn't expected it to be Steve. More significantly, when he heard the borderline hysteria in Steve's voice, he dropped everything (metaphorically, obviously) and went to help him. It helped that Bucky had a ton of experience with younger kids, being that he had a younger sister and a ton of young cousins who he had always watched when he was a kid. He knew how to talk to young kids, knew not to act condescending and to treat them like they were equal. So when Steve mentioned a kid, he knew that he would be of help. 

Besides, all he had planned to do that day was write some music and eat some ramen. He wasn't putting off going to look at bars and stuff, it's just that he was scared, and that he wasn't sure what they would think of a veteran, one-armed musician with just a guitar and no performing experiences. Okay, so maybe he was putting it off, no big deal, okay? He was nervous, he couldn't help it. 

And, Steve had needed his help, and that was more than enough of a reason to drop everything and go- and Bucky couldn't deny it anymore, he couldn't deny that he was ready to do a shit ton of anything for this guy, despite it going against every part of his better instinct. And you know, Steve had actually called him- Bucky, his new neighbor and someone who should be a complete stranger and someone he didn't have to trust. But he did, Steve trusted him, and he called him and relied on him to come over and help him and dammit, it felt good. 

Because people didn't rely on Bucky anymore, they thought he was incapable of doing anything and everything. They saw his lack of a "normal" arm and they put it in their heads that it was a setback, something that held him back. And, pair that with the dog tags that rested around his neck, and people think he's some incompetent war veteran incapable of making any decisions and doing anything for himself. But it just wasn't true, it wasn't. He wasn't ashamed, no he was not ashamed at all of who he was. Even if some people stared a little too long and even if they looked at him with pity in their eyes, thinking that if they smiled at him, they'll be a better damn person. But, no, he was not ashamed. And it felt good to be able to do something for someone, it really did. 

So Bucky got himself out of bed and quickly got dressed, rushing down to Steve and the little kid who was supposedly about to be poisoned with cat food, and he felt good about it, even though he knew that the task of going out and going to a bar and asking for a chance, was weighing on him heavily. 

"How the hell are you so good with kids?" Steve asked through a mouthful of pancakes, when Cassie excused herself to go to the bathroom ("my dad says I have the bladder of a squirrel, I dunno what that means though.") 

Bucky swallowed a bite and put his fork down, "I have a younger sister, I took care of her while m' mom went to work. I also have cousins who I used t' babysit for. And I was a counselor for years at a local summer camp, I had the five year olds."

"Wh- damn, you really have experience," Steve says, and he seems genuinely impressed. 

"Kids have always been easy to me," Bucky explains. "They just wanna know things, and they wanna have things."

"Sounds like me," Steve shrugs. 

"'cept you know whether you're a Republican or a Democrat," Bucky points out, and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"The choice is obvious there," Steve says dryly. "But, really, you're amazing with the kid. She really does like you better," he teases. 

"'s hard to tell when it's been less than an hour, Stevie," Bucky brushes off his comment, but his stomach feels warm at the idea of it. 

Cassie pads back in, her bare feet- she'd taken her shoes and socks off before the episode of Ninja Turtles started- hitting the floor softly, quietly echoing throughout the apartment. She pulls her chair back out and climbs in, and continues eating her pancakes. "Mister Steve, these don't taste like the ones my dad gives me from the yellow box," she says, as-a-matter-of-factly. 

"That's 'cause Stevie is an angel sent from pancake heaven," Bucky coos, and Cassie cocks her head with a smile, and Steve scoffs. "His pancakes are the best in the world."

"They are," Cassie nods her head and agrees. Bucky looks at Steve and gives a smug smile at the blushing man, and takes a bite of his pancakes. "So, what are we doing today?"

Bucky looks over at Steve, who was looking down at his plate and pushing his fork through a pancake. "Cassie, do you like art?" Steve and Cassie both look at him and furrow their brows, which makes him laugh. "Stevie here is an artist, and maybe he has some paint or somethin' and we can do a project?"

Cassie perks up, and Steve smiles. "I have some paint around here somewhere- I don't really paint anymore. I- uh, we could do that, if you want," he rushes through his last sentence and Bucky bites back a giggle, because Steve looks so hopeful for Cassie's approval. 

"Yes, yes, yes! A bajillion times yes!" Cassie jumps from her seat and claps, and gets syrup on her dress. "Oh-"

"I'll give you a shirt to paint in," Steve says, "it'll be like a dress on ya, kid." Cassie giggles and smiles, and then sits back down to eat more. Steve smiles and eats his last bite, and takes his plate in his hand and gets up to go to the kitchen. Bucky does the same thing, trailing behind Steve. 

When they're both in the kitchen, Steve grabs Bucky's plate and puts both of theirs in the sink. Bucky leans against the counter, and watches as Steve takes out a carton of strawberries from the fridge and puts them in the sink to wash. "Y'know, Stevie, I could go, if y' want. I don't think you really need me, you an' Cassie get along really well. I don't even know why you called me-"

"Please stay, Buck."

Bucky looks at Steve, who is next to the fridge again, and sees that his skin is a little more pale than usual, and the bags under his eyes are more prominent; but he's smiling, a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I- of course, Steve."

"I mean- if you have somewhere to go-"

"-I don't."

"-then you could go, but I just-"

"Steve-"

Steve looks up and Bucky finds his eyes, and he sees Steve soften slightly. He leans against the fridge with one shoulder, and he suddenly looks so exhausted. "It's okay if you want me to stay, I don't mind- I want to."

"Are you-"

"Yes, I'm sure, now let's go," he says, and grabs the carton from the sink and shuts off the water, and then wraps his hand around Steve's wrist and pulls him toward himself, dragging them back to the table. 

***

The apartment felt empty when Bucky went back up, no squeals or throaty laughter bouncing off the walls. The rest of the day consisted of painting- finger painting for Cassie, abstract for Steve, and Bucky watching the two of them- eating peanut butter sandwiches and watching Ninja turtles as they fell asleep. Cassie's dad- Scott, Bucky thinks- picked Cassie up and greeted Steve with a hug, and then took Cassie home. Steve invited Bucky to stay, but he wanted to go home. 

He was tired. 

Not in the physical way, at least not entirely. He was tired, his muscles ached, not being used to watching over kids, not for a while. But it went beyond that, really. He was mentally exhausted, not used to keeping up with a ball of energy, not used to interacting with people for so long. Steve was easy, he knew when to back off and didn't talk too much or too fast (spare the call that morning), but Cassie was a smart girl, she was observant and funny, and she always spoke what was on her mind. It was hard to keep up, but Bucky did it- he was tired, but nevertheless, it was a good tired. 

His apartment was the way he left it before he scrambled to find a decent shirt and shut the door behind him. His guitar was staring back at him on the couch, almost taunting him, telling him to stop being a lazy ass and get a move on with finding work. Bucky glared back at the guitar, and scowled when he realized that was true- and then rolling his eyes when he realized he was having an inner conversation with a fucking guitar. 

"Idiot," he muttered to himself, and slipped his shoes off. He scooped them up, walked over to the couch and tossed them in to his room as he plopped down on the couch. He put his feet up, leaned back and grabbed his guitar, and absentmindedly began strumming. He shifted his fingered over the strings, playing different chords with the same strumming pattern. 

Playing made him feel at ease; his thoughts flowed easily, intertwining with one another in a peaceful way, slinking back and forth like oil and water in a glass bottle- clear as can be, never truly mixing, yet coexisting. What didn't make sense, what made him anxious- it didn't when he played. His fingers had a mind of their own, floating over the strings, barely touching the surface, creating sweet, melodic sounds. The music hovered in the air, suspended as it echoed and bounced on the walls, creating a low hum in the aftermath. This wasn't like the way he normally played, it was soft and delicate, almost as if pulling at a string too hard would break the surface, shatter the thin glass. It wasn't hard music, it was warm and soft; it was velvety, as if it could be touched, a tangible thing. The thin line between the two universes Bucky existed in at that exact moment, they thickened. The music no longer felt as if everything would fly away, it didn't feel so far away anymore. The Universe Bucky existed in, the one where everyone else existed, it felt far away. Whenever Bucky played music, he found himself floating onto another world. 

This world wasn't filled was anxiety. It didn't make Bucky feel weak- in fact, weakness and strength made no difference in this world. It didn't matter than he didn't go to bars and attempt to make a living. It didn't matter that his only friend was his perfect neighbor, and that he was still embarrassed of him and wished he could be normal and not so fucked up. None of his problems matter, they just... existed. And it was okay that they existed, it was perfectly alright, as long as his fingers brushed over the strings and the music fogged up the room. 

Everything was ivory, a warm yellow, and a dark green. It all felt like a sunny summer day, a strawberry popsicle dripping down to his elbows, the smell of the red rubber softball in between his knees, the grass under him squishing at the weight of his young body, tanned and freckled from the hours under the sun. Everything was-

Six loud, consecutive cracks. 

Like loud rain pounding against a tin roof, like a fist breaking through glass. Chaos happened when these sounds were heard, as if all at once, the apocalypse had begun immediately. 

Chaos. 

Bucky threw his guitar down and collapsed on the floor, pressed down on the cold wood, ribs digging into the floor and this fists balled up by his head as he squeezed his eyes shut tight. His thoughts were chaotic, cutting through one another, like a saw slicing through wood. He wrestled internally with himself, telling himself to fight the urge to get up and see what the noise was- but his gut told him it wouldn't be safe, especially since he himself wasn't armed. He clenched into his fists tighter, face scrunching up as he attempted to hear what was going. He unclenched his fists on the ground under his chest. 

The ground below him was a dirty yellow, dusty to the touch, staining Bucky's clothes, which were a muddy green, covered in patches of grey and brown, presumably from the previous night in the swamps nearer the border. It was bitterly cold, the air around him biting as he shivered against the ground. Winter had shocked him and his squad, who had all assumed that Afghanistan was all hot desert and cactuses. But Bucky quickly adjusted, taking the lead as the cold snipped at their fingertips in the middle of night, and it became routine- Dugan led during the day, when the cold had subsided, and Bucky took over in the night when the winter was far more evident, earning him his "fuckin' ridiculous nickname, Dum, where th' hell d'ya get these things from?" of the Winter Soldier. Bucky was able to provide as much as he could for his friends, volunteering to go ahead and endure the cold, long nights. 

The gunshots had subsided, his ears rang at their loud, sharp crack. He turned to the side, and searched for Dugan's familiar face in the setting sun's glow. His friend smirked at him once he was found, and Bucky rolled his eyes at the young man's easiness. He cocked his head in the direction ahead of them, and Dugan nodded and signaled the rest of the squad behind them. They all immediately began to push their bodies up, using their elbows to shuffle quietly toward the targeted area. Bucky was unsure whether it was safe enough to stand up and walk there, so he continued leading on in their trudging along the dusty-turned-slightly-damp ground. 

A few gunshots are heard from far off, a usual occurrence in the situation they're in. They crawl for about forty seconds until Bucky abruptly stops, signaling to Dugan to stop movement. Behind him, he heard a scream, a rusty voice, like a knife hitting a cutting board. 

"Run, ru-"

Bucky looks back and sees Junior curled in a ball, his head sticking out and his eyes looking around frantically. It takes a moment for Bucky to register the situation, and by then, it's nearly too late. 

"Take cover!" he growls loudly, his voice echoing around them. He breathes in as the rest of them run past him, their feet slamming against the ground like a herd of cows. "Juni, let's go!" 

He starts jogging, but Junior Juniper is planted firmly on the ground. "It's too late, take cov-" he sobs, and Bucky tries running back, but Juniper screams out, and Bucky tears away, inhaling deeply in as he scrunches up his face and wipes a tear away. He's twenty feet away when he turns back, and shouts, "I'm sorry, I'm sor-"

The loud crack brings Bucky back to Brooklyn, and he's on the wood floor clenching his fists and tears are running down his face as he cries out his late friend's name. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome Cassie and Scott to my fanfic! ALSO EVERYTHING WILL BE EXPLAINED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER (re: the noise, Juni...)
> 
> sorry it took so long to update, this chapter was hard to write and I'm still not 100% okay with it but I wasn't gonna keep anyone waiting any longer. 
> 
> once again, details may be wrong or inaccurate, keep in mind I'm a 16 year old girl from American who has never been to  
> •war  
> •Afghanistan  
> and has never experienced flashbacks. 
> 
> Anyways, please let me know what you think, honest! Let me know if anything is wrong and I'll check and see. I hope you enjoyed Cassie and Scott, I was waiting for the right time to add them in- they'll be back, I promise! 
> 
> also, for any confusion, Junior Juniper is canonically part of the Howling Commandos.  
> he's curled up on a grenade, and if Bucky would've went any closer, he would have been killed. 
> 
> a new chapter will come soon, I'm really busy with work and homework and GISHWHES (@ misha, all ur fault). be patient!
> 
> leave comments, kudos and stuff :)


	9. this and this and everything else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what happens afterwards, Harry Potter and chocolate chips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI GUYS IM BACKKKKKKKKKKK I'm in college now so I have more free time, so I'll post more yayyyyyyyyyyyy. enjoy the gay.

“But don't you, run away run away, when you get tired,” Steve sang under his breath. “‘Cause this will, slip away slip away, and start a fire,” he tossed his pencil in the air and caught it. 

“A fire that, could never be put out, oh hurry time, is running out,” Steve was bored out of his mind. He wasn’t used to all this free time, having work to schedule his life around. Never mind that, work was his healthy dose of human interaction, and now all he had was Buc—

I mean, did he even really have Bucky? The only reason he had managed to see Bucky today was because of a half-assed offer to watch Cassie at the building’s annual barbecue a few months back, which Scott obviously had kept in the back of his mind. Cassie was adorable and he had so much fun today, but it just… pissed Steve off that he just, ugh.

Bucky being in his life (sort of) was beyond confusing for Steve. It was more than just emotions towards the other man, repressed or not, but it meant confusion in his other friendships, with Pietro, Wanda and Nat. With Bucky suddenly appearing in his life, Steve started changing; he changed mentally and emotionally, his mind opening up to the possibility of seeing himself as more than just a burden on everyone he knew. His whole life, he sat in the background, too scared to let anyone in with the repercussions of losing them the second they truly got to know him. It was odd to Steve, when Bucky basically seemed to feel the same way. Suddenly it wasn’t him feeling like a burden. 

With his friends, he knew they felt bad for him— his life inherently sucked. Which is why when Pietro and Wanda hired Steve, he refused to let them in beyond the basics of schooling and location, refusing to mention the dead-mom- and-no-home-in-years-and-barely-getting-by situation. He knew that if they knew how depressed he was, how many times he wished he had a different life (or none at all), they would just feel worse. Hell, a pity-hire was bad enough, he could barely survive past that. With Nat, he knew she felt bad for him. You could see it in her face, the pity and sadness she felt when she spoke at him. Her eyes weren’t as stone-cold, they weren’t hard and purposeful. She sort of just, emptied out at the sight of Steve, and he was able to see it. 

The question was, why did they stay?

He understood why Bucky let him into his life, why he continued to see him after all of his disastrous attempts to let him in and kick him out. But his friends, at this point, it made no sense. And he was mad, Steve was ridiculously mad at everything. He was mad at Wanda for just deciding it was okay to “cancel” work, he was mad at Pietro for making emotions more confusing, he was mad at Nat for being too good for him, he was mad at his mom for being dead, he was mad at the whole fucking world. 

His thoughts went back to Bucky. They’ve been doing that a lot. 

Steve was sitting on his bed when he heard what sounded like gunshots outside the apartment building. He shot up, ran to the window and peeked outside, his heart beating fast. Accompanied by a quickly-formed crowd of by-standers, a trucker was climbing out of what Steve realized was the source of the noise, a back-firing moving truck. He would’ve went down and offered help, were it not for the noise that followed right after.

“No!” 

The shout came from above Steve, louder than anything that he had heard from there. A few seconds later, a loud thump followed by a crash and a scream, Steve was out the door and running. He never ran so fast in his life, taking four steps at a time, his chest heaving as anxiety filled his head: was Bucky okay? What happened? Is he hurt?

Steve reached the door to Bucky’s apartment after what felt like hours, and started knocking on the door. “Bucky?” he shouted, barely waiting for a response. “Bucky, is everything okay?”

“B-bucky? Please…” A few moments pass, and Steve won’t wait any longer. He steps back, and kicks the door in, his foot breaking through the lock. Steve’s heart is going a thousand miles an hour, his whole body shaking, fight or flight mode was replaced with a “Bucky” mode, all he could do and see was Bucky, poor Bucky, on the floor, his head curled into his arms and his whole body shaking, his knuckles white as he clamped onto his shoulders. “Bucky, what—“

“You need to leave.”

Steve froze.

“Y-you need to go, now.”

“Bucky, please just let me make sure you’re alright, please,” Steve begs, stepping tentatively closer. “I swear, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just…”

“I need you to leave, Steve, please,” Bucky’s voice cracked, and he lifted his head up. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathed out. Bucky’s head was cut on his hairline, blood was slowly dripping down the side of his face. His knuckles on his non-amputated arm were covered in crusted blood, drying up with chips of wood from the smashed floor below him covering up the wounds. His prosthetic arm was scratched, the scrape running from his elbow to the end of his forearm, and it was bad. “Bucky, I have to take you to the hospital.”

“No,” Bucky growled, trying to push himself up and wincing when his arm pushed down on the floor. “I’m fine, I swear.”

Steve chucked mirthlessly, “Fine, my ass, Bucky! You’re not okay, we’re going to the hospital, now,” he tried to bend down to help Bucky up, but he pushed pass him. 

“I don’t need your help, Steve—“

“Since when have either of us wanted help or saving, Buck?” he shouted. “You are physically not okay, and it would be an asshole move for me to just leave, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah—“

“I don’t care what happened, I just wanna take you to the hospital and make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

“I don’t,” Bucky claimed. “I’ve had enough experience with concussions to know that this isn’t one—“

“Bucky—“

“I didn’t bump my head, it was my arms— both of them, I swear,” he held up his arms, facing Steve. Here, Steve was really able to see the utter sadness and hopelessness in the other man, his eyes sunken in and bloodshot, blood smeared down his cheek and neck, lips chapped and cheeks flushed. “This is just t-too much,” he stumbles on his words.

And Steve literally wants to fall apart because he so fucking gets it. He gets it beyond belief. He gets the overwhelming feeling of sadness, of being so sad that there’s no more left in you, there’s nothing left and all you can feel is pain. “Okay, no hospital. I can fix up the cuts and stuff.”

***

“How do you know how to do this shit?”

“My mom was a nurse,” Steve says, brow furrowed in concentration as he wrapped up Bucky’s knuckles.

“Was?”

“She died when I was fourteen, in a car accident,” Steve reveals quietly. “Truthfully, I really know this stuff from experience. As a kid I was picked on, and as an adult I’m a dumbass who loves to save people, even if it means throwing a punch.”

“Damn, that should be your Tinder profile,” Bucky chuckled, and Steve paused to flick him. “Ow! Rude.”

“Okay,” Steve finished up the last of the wraps, “so how long are we gonna keep doing this?”

Bucky pauses, confused. “What?”

“How long are we gonna keep pretending that you’re okay? Y’know, me seeing you break down, trying to get you to let me help you, you letting me…” Steve paused, but Bucky didn’t say anything. “And then you try to cover things up with humor.”

“I don’t—“ Bucky stops short, because even he couldn’t deny it. “Way to cut it short, asshole,” Bucky fell back in his seat, staring at Steve. “I just— I didn’t expect it to happen again, the flashbacks and shit. One second I was sitting there, and the next I hear this noise in my head—“

“It wasn’t in your head, I heard it, too,” Steve interrupts. “It was some truck backfiring in front of the building next to us.” Bucky’s eyes widen, “I thought you knew…”

“No, I thought I was going insane!” Bucky exclaimed.

“Well…” Steve retorts, with a smile, and Bucky flicks him.  
“I don't know, I heard these noises and my mind went blank, my body just told me, ‘hey, go on the fucking floor, you’re being attacked,’ and that’s what I did,” Bucky shrugs. “You probably heard the metal from my arm hit the floor, or somethin’,” he examines what his fall to the floor has done to his arm. “Suddenly I was back in Afghanistan, watching Junior…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bucky, this isn’t just you having flashbacks,” Steve sat down on the couch next to him, “I mean, I’m no doctor, b-but this has to be PTSD.”

Bucky sighed, shifted in his seat, not speaking for a minute. His eyes wouldn’t move from his wrapped-up hands on his lap, the blood from his face cleaned up and the gash covered and cleaned. “I keep thinking that if I just, I don't know— if I ignore it it’ll go away, y’know?”

“I don’t think this is a common cold, Buck,” Steve chuckled, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The longer you ignore it, the worse it gets.”

“Well, hey,” Bucky looks up at Steve, “the first step to recovery is admitting you’ve got a problem, no?”

“This isn’t Alcoholics Anonymous, but alright Buck,” Steve grinned, and Bucky flicked him. “Ow!— okay this flicking thing has to stop—“

“You started it!”

“Okay, you see!” Steve half-shouted, and Bucky paused. “Every time we have something serious happen, we like— ignore it and cover up our shit with humor.”

“Steve-O, that’s the best way to live life,” Bucky got up and made his way to his kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. “I go to group therapy and shit, I just don’t want it to be a big deal. The second I feel incompetent is the second I give up, I don't know.”

“You have a tendency of covering up your pain with bad humor and hunger—“

“Alright, fuck you, I’m hilarious—“

“My point proven.”

“Well, you’re not any better, asshole,” Bucky slammed the fridge door shut. “I’m fuckin’ hungry, and I have nothing in this fridge.”

“Bucky, it’s late, maybe you should get some sleep,” Steve gets up from the couch. “I’m goin’ back to my place, you can call anytime you need something.”

“I won’t be able to sleep,” Bucky says as-a-matter-of-factly, leaning against the fridge. “Last time this happened I tossed and turned all night.” He walked over to the couch and plopped down on it, crossing his legs and putting them up on the coffee table. Steve was standing over him with his arms crossed. Bucky pats the empty spot on the couch next to him, and Steve tentatively sits down. 

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you—“ Steve pauses, hesitating for a moment, “do you think it’s weird how in this short time we’ve suddenly— no, I don't know.” Steve was looking down at his lap, itching his nose. “Why are we like this?”

“Like what? Like emo-ass children who don’t do confrontation with any other people except each other?” Bucky deadpans. 

“Wha— yeah, pretty much,” Steve laughs and looks at Bucky, who’s chuckling. “Every time we’re together I feel like I’m getting a break from the real world, y’know?”

Bucky is silent for a moment, running his hand through his hair. Steve being there was both calming and alarming for him, his heart steady but his mind swirling with thoughts and worries and confusion. Here was this man, admittedly a gorgeous one, sitting next to him, and he understood him. This was the first time someone started to understand Bucky, saw past the arm and bags under his eyes; Steve saw through his bullshit, and it freaked Bucky the fuck out but also comforted him. He was exposed but no longer alone, it was oxymoronic. His fear was why he used the humor, Bucky knew that, of course. But, the comfort and understanding that Steve showed was why Bucky found himself spewing real shit, and it pissed Bucky off but also, he was grateful for his impulsiveness, albeit unintentional. “Yeah, Stevie, I know.” Bucky grabbed the television remote next to him and turned on the screen. “What do you wanna watch?”

“Harry Potter?”

“Fuck yes.”

***

Bucky felt warm.

This was odd, because he was regaining consciousness and he usually woke up from sleeping being cold. And instead, he was warm. He shifted and felt a weight next to him, an arm?

What? Why was there an arm next to— Steve.

Bucky opened his eyes and saw that next to him, Steve Rogers was sleeping, nestled into his shoulder and slightly drooling. His memory started serving its goddamn purpose, and he recalls Steve sitting down closer to him after he’d gotten back from buying microwaveable popcorn and coke and twizzlers from the convenience store down the block. When Prisoner of Azkaban had started, Steve had laughed so hard when Hermione punched Draco and fell off the couch and repositioned himself even closer to Bucky. He had thrown popcorn at the screen when Umbridge first appeared (screaming “BOO YOU WHORE”), and chanted “Gay, gay, gay” when Sirius started talking about James Potter, and again whenever Draco and Harry were in each other’s presence. The last thing he remembers was the battle in the ministry, Sirius’ death.

Bucky’s legs were tangled with Steve’s, the latter’s arm sprawled across the former’s chest. He knew he should’ve woken Steve up, sent him back down to his apartment. He knew it wasn’t right to be enjoying Steve’s body next to his own, his smell and his warmth, his… everything. He knew it was wrong, but he just let himself fall back asleep. 

***

Bucky woke up to a pillow smushed in his face and a stomach ache. “Fuc—what the fuck?” He pushed himself up, immediately noticing that Steve wasn’t there. And then last night rushed into his thoughts, the Harry Potter and the popcorn and the falling asleep next to each other and the waking up in the middle night and shit, fuck, FUCK, is all he could think. Bucky knew he must have scared the other man away, he was probably smothering him and cuddling with his fucking dick, shit shit shit.

It took Bucky another moment to notice the pink post-it note that was stuck on his head, hovering above his eyes. He quickly yanked it, praying it didn’t read “you freak!” and blessed his entire life when it had read “that was some nice cuddling, come down to my place for breakfast” with a doodle of a cat sticking its tongue out, and signed “Steve G. Rogers.” 

“Fuckin’ nerd,” Bucky chuckled, and got up and walked over to the bathroom. He switched on the light, and took his toothbrush out of the cup, squeezing toothpaste on it and wetting it. As he brushed his teeth, he looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was shorter than he was used to, pieces falling in his face but only reaching below his eyebrows. He ran his hand through it as he brushed his teeth, examining the cut by his hairline. Steve had done a good job cleaning it up, it was already healing. He was tired, but not like he was usually; he was tired from staying up late and sleeping next to a fucking huge giant Adonis, he thought. It was a good kind of tired, he thought.

His eyes weren’t red, the white stark in contrast to the blue-grey of his irises. The bags under his eyes were dark, his face was stubbly and his lips were dry. Compared to Steve, I’m a fucking rat, he thought. Steve’s hair was always perfect, his lips always red and plump, his eyelashes long and light. He always looked put together, his shirts clean (and tight), and never creased. Bucky realized as he rinsed his mouth that he wasn’t thinking these things out of jealousy, rather out of admiration and onlooking. He splashed water on his face and dried up, and shut the light and walked over to his room. He changed into a fresh pair of sweats and underwear, put on deodorant and slipped a sweatshirt over his head and new socks on his feet. He didn’t bother with shoes as he shut the door of his apartment behind him.

When he reaches Steve’s apartment, he knocks on the door. “It’s open!”

“Good mornin’, Steve-O,” Bucky plopped on Steve’s couch. Steve was in his kitchen, flipping what Bucky excitedly realized was pancakes. “You’re making fuckin’ pancakes?”

“Hell yeah, I am,” Steve was smirking, and Bucky ran over to see. “They’re chocolate chip,” Steve remarks, and Bucky could kiss him, he swears.

“Marry me,” he deadpans, fake swooning, which resulted in a flick from Steve. “No really, Steve, I’m wifin’ you up before anyone else does,” and Steve chuckles. Bucky grabs the bag of chocolate chips and tosses some in his mouth. “Steve, open!”

Steve turns and Bucky throws a chocolate chip towards him, which bounces off Steve’s nose. 

“Literally, what the fuck Steve.”

“Try again,” Steve insists, and Bucky does. He tosses a chocolate chip at Steve, which lands right in Steve’s mouth. “Yes!” he cries, and Bucky high-fives him, “I’m amazing.” Steve is bowing down to an invisible crowd.

“Yeah, Steve, you keep telling yourself that, kiddo,” Bucky drawls and Steve flicks him, but in his head, he agrees with Steve wholeheartedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in the beginning Steve is singing "tell her you love her too" by echosmith.
> 
> also sorry its not crazy long I just wanted to post something quick before I start posting crazy longer stuff. SUBSCRIBE AND COMMENT AND KUDOS because I could really use some input and something to drive me forward to write more.


	10. unemployment, a tragedy starring bucky and steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sam wilson returns, better than ever. bucky is learning how to adult, and corrupting steve and his meme-less life. steve does A Very Important Thing™
> 
> also, they are all children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! college is hecking annoying as heck, but I'm here and I decided to post this short blurb and not deprive you. more will come within the next week or two.

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, and Steve has just woken up. He had been lazying around a day ago when he decided to send an application to an art commission company. When Steve gets up and opens his laptop, he finds a message “The Art Commissions Center of Brooklyn.” Steve reads the email of acceptance, and jumps up and grabs his notebook and pencils, and starts sketching out an idea that had come to mind. 

***  
Bucky pushes the double doors tentatively, the bright lights peaking through and the cold air whooshing in his direction. He enters the building, slightly familiar with his surroundings, and looks around. 

It had been two days since he’s seen Steve, and he was sick of sitting around in his apartment doing nothing. He decided that he needed to get the hell out and do something about his problems, otherwise Steve would pester him every time he was around. It also helped that he didn’t want to end living like a goddamn hermit, his apartment was getting really damn annoying.

Bucky knew Tony would kill him if he didn’t go back to the VA, but he couldn’t do the group therapy. He also knew that he needed some damn help. The cut on his head was healing, but Bucky realized that something like this was going to happen again and he needed a damn solution. Which is how he found himself back in the building under the fluorescent lights of the VA yet again. 

Bucky walked up to the front desk, where a lady with blonde hair and pink tips and bright red lipstick sat, babbling in her cell about how “my rotation is almost over and I want a fuckin’ taco and— hold up, I gotta take care of this,” and put her phone down. She looked over at Bucky and smiled, “How can I help you?”

“Hi, I-um, I came here a not too long ago for group therapy with a therapist named Sam, I think?”

“Sam Wilson, I assume, yes,” the woman replied, nodding politely. 

“Right, yeah,” Bucky paused, hesitating. “So, the thing is, I fuckin’ hated the group thing, and I was wondering if I could speak to him about an alternate solution, because it really freaked me out and… yeah.”

“Sir, if you would like, I can call him up and see if he has time to talk for a moment?” the woman asked politely, and Bucky swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay, great! Can I have your name so I can let Sam know who he is meeting?”

“Buc— James Buchanan Barnes, but he might know me as Bucky, I-I’m not sure,” he flinches at his awkwardness, and the woman nods. She picks up the phone on the side of her computer and dials a few numbers and puts it near her ear. 

“Hey Sam! It’s Linda, I have one James Buchanan Barnes here, says you might know him as Bucky,” Linda looks up and Bucky and he nods. “Yeah, Bucky, he wanted to speak to you for a moment, is that— oh, yeah, totally,” she pauses for a moment. “Yeah, I’ll send him right up, thanks Sam!”

The phone clicks down, and Linda looks at Bucky. “Alright, Mr. Barnes, you can either take the elevator or the stairs up to the third floor, and his office is the first door on the right. You can just go right in, he’s waiting for you,” Linda smiles, and points at the doors for the stairs near the elevator. 

“Thank you, I appreciate your help, ma’am,” Bucky says, and Linda smiles back as he walks away. Bucky walks to the stairs and follows Linda’s instructions, and found himself in front of a wooden door that read “Dr. Sam Wilson.” And, fuck, Bucky was freaking out, but he pushed the door open to be greeted by a small waiting room, the walls light blue and the furniture was plush and warming. The wall was adorned with pictures, which, when Bucky looked closely, were Sam and other people, presumably friends and family. There was also some paintings, a few of beaches and birds, a lot of damn birds. Bucky’s breathing steadied. 

The door across from him opened up, and Sam walked out smiling. “Bucky! Nice to finally meet you in person,” he holds out his hand, and Bucky reaches out and shakes out. “Stark always finds a way to bring you into our conversations whenever I see him, he never shuts up.”

“Yeah, that’s Tony,” Bucky replies, awkwardly. “I wanted to— I just, I don’t really— ugh, I just…”

“Hey, come inside my office and sit down, we can talk,” Sam says warmly, saving Bucky from struggling even more. He leads him in his office, and the room is decorated similarly to the waiting room, his diplomas hanging proudly, more pictures surrounding it. “I do have a group session in about thirty, but I figured if you wanted to meet for longer, we could talk again.”

“Oh— no, I just, needed some help,” Bucky sits down in the seat Sam gestures to, and Sam sits across from him. 

“Coffee or tea?”

“Yeah, coffee would be great, th-thanks,” Bucky says, and Sam starts bustling around the side table near his desk. “Just black, no sugar or anything.”

“So, what’d you wanna talk about?”

“I don't know how much Stark told you, about me. I just, I had went to your group therapy last week, and it was,” Bucky paused, “okay, but— it was…”

“Intense?”

“Yes, very.”

“I get that, it’s not for everyone,” Sam admits, and hands Bucky a steaming mug. “But, it shouldn't stop you for getting help. Tony is an old friend, he told me a bit about you and where you served, a brief history of what happened. I know it might not be my right to know, but he had confided in me, he was worried about you,” Sam smiles and sits down again. 

“R-right, so you know I’ve got a metal arm?”

“As Tony put it, a ‘badass metal arm that makes him look like a hunk,’ yes,” Sam chuckles, and Bucky rolls his eyes, because yep, that’s Tony. “But, that’s basically it.”

“I just, I started having these moments, where I flash back to Afghanistan and I’m like, suddenly there,” Bucky looks down at his mug. “And sometimes, loud noises freak me the fuck out, and I just don’t wanna do this group therapy thing but Steve is bothering me about how I should get help.”

“Steve?”

“He’s my neighbor, we became friends, I think,” Bucky is blushing, and Sam smirks. “I don't know what we— yeah, so I need to stop the flashback thing, and I need to start working and I just wan’ move on from this shit.”

“Bucky,” Sam leans a bit forward, “you need to understand that what you went through isn’t just an experience, or a moment. You went through a traumatic thing, and the aftermath isn’t something that can simply be solved or disregarded.” Bucky sips his coffee and looks at Sam, breathing heavily. “What you went through doesn’t define you, but it can’t just be pushed away, Bucky.”

“I know,” Bucky admits softly, because fuck, he didn’t want to admit it, but fuck. “Yeah, I-I know.” Bucky looks down and takes a big gulp of his coffee. 

“You said you didn’t like group, but don't rule out one-on-one therapy. It’s much more personal, and fits for your schedule and needs,” Sam says, opening up a notebook on his desk. “Here’s a list of the different things that the VA offers,” he hands Bucky a sheet of paper which he glances at. 

“Can you just be my therapist or whatever?” Bucky asks, hopeful. 

“As much as I would love to, I think I know a better doctor who could help your situation a bit more than I can,” Sam points at a name on Bucky’s paper. “Dr. Bruce Banner, he’s a friend of mine, he works here in the VA and he has a pretty flexible schedule. I can give you his number.”

“I don't know, I just,” Bucky pauses, staring down at his mug. “I just want to fix my dumb brain, I want this all to just be over so I can get a job and just move the hell on with my life.”

“Your brain isn’t dumb Bucky,” Sam looks at him with warm eyes, and Bucky blushes, embarrassed by the attention. “I really think you should meet with Banner, he will definitely help you with all of this. I know it would be easier for you to just push all your shit away, but it just can’t happen.”

“Yeah, I know. There really is no way you can be my therapist?” Bucky asks, already knowing the answer. Sam starts rummaging through a bag on the floor.

“Don’t think so,” Sam smiles back at him, handing Bucky a chocolate chip and patting his shoulder, "but I can be a friend."

***  
Sam had given Bucky the doctor’s number, which Bucky had promptly called and made an appointment for the next morning. He had also given Bucky his own number, saying he should call him “whenever, we can get lunch or some shit.” When he arrived back at the apartment building, he walked directly to Steve’s apartment and knocked on the door. Steve opened the door in pajamas, his hair messy and sticking up in five different directions, and his shirt inside out. “Stevie, I am officially an adult.”

“Ha, yeah okay,” Steve snorted, and moved out of the way so Bucky can walk in his home. “What, did you shower for the first time? No more baths for Jamesy?” Steve tussled Bucky’s hair, which promptly earned him a flick on the head from Bucky. 

“I’ll have you know, I went to the VA all by myself, and made an appointment with a therapist like your dumb ass has been telling me to do,” Bucky plops down on Steve’s couch and makes himself comfortable. “Therefore, I am an adult, get ready for dad jokes.”

“No, not dad jokes!” Steve runs over to the couch and grabs a pillow and throws it at Bucky’s head, which results in an “oomph,” followed by a “you motherfucker.”

Steve collapses next to Bucky on the couch and props his feet up on his lap. “So why do you look like shit today?”

“Because, it’s called fashion, look it up son,” Steve nudges Bucky with his feet, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “What did the person at the VA say?”

“He’s a friend of a friend, he recommended a therapist in the VA, so I made an appointment for tomorrow morning,” Bucky says, fiddling with his sleeve. “I’m doing this for you, Rogers, because otherwise you’ll never leave me alone.”

“I’m never leaving you alone regardless, so too fucking bad,” Steve retorts, and Bucky rolls his eyes, but his stomach churns and he feels warm inside, because Steve wanted him around and that meant the world to him. 

“Language,” Bucky teases, and Steve flicks his head. “So, how’s the jobless life, dude?”

“Fuckin’ kill me, I’m gonna die of boredom,” Steve throws his head back against the couch. “I’ve been sitting here like a fucking dead man, binge-watching How I Met Your Mother and eating cheese.”

“We need jobs.”

“First of all, technically I have a job, it’s you who needs a job. You have to go see Nat, otherwise I’m bringing her here,” Steve gets up and pads over to the kitchen. “Want some pasta?”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, by the way, did you hear about that Italian chef who died?” Bucky asks, getting up and following Steve. 

“No…?”

“Yeah, he pasta way…” Bucky deadpans and looks at Steve, whose eyes widen as Bucky makes finger guns and winks.

“No,” Steve says, and bursts out laughing, and starts chasing Bucky around with a pot in his hand. Bucky starts running and giggling.

“Stevie, what do you call a fake noodle?” Steve almost whacks him with the pot, and Bucky turns around and tackles him down, grabbing the pot and tossing it aside. “A FUCKING IMPASTA, BITCH!” He starts tickling Steve, who was cackling and wiggling around.

“Bucky,” Steve is gasping, “we are,” he squeaks, “grown men, would you— BUCKY— stop!” Bucky laughs and throws up his hands.

“Fine, but I want pasta, Stevie,” Bucky retorts, and hops off Steve in ease, grabs the pot and tosses it in Steve’s direction (“Ow, fuck— Bucky!”).

***  
“So,” Steve puts his fork down and grabs his glass of water from the table, where him and Bucky sat for their dinner (not date). “I might have done a thing,” he says, and Bucky hums in response, “a very important thing.”

“Hm, is it a very important thing or A Very Important Thing™, capitalized and trademarked?” Bucky asks, swirling his spaghetti around on his fork. 

Steve pauses for a moment, thinking and drinking from his glass, then says, “The latter,” and puts his glass down. 

“Do share,” Bucky stabs his fork into Steve’s salad and takes a bite, which Steve has to remind himself that This Is Not A Date™ (he’s going to kill Bucky for telling him about “memes,” whatever the hell they are), even if it was really starting to feel like one. 

“Well, I was on this website that was looking for people to take some art commissions, like just some basic art stuff. They were looking for some people with actual art degrees, which, hey, that’s what I have,” Bucky snorted at this. “So I sent my information and some pictures of paintings and drawings that I’ve done.”

“And?” Bucky inquires, bouncing in seat.

“And, I got approved, I’ve already got three commissions!” Steve exclaims, and Bucky jumps up and cheers. 

“That’s awesome Stevie! I thought you had already done that kind of stuff before?” Bucky asks, taking a sip on his water. 

“I’ve done commissions before, but they were shit and they were always porn,” Bucky chokes on his water, and gasping out a “what.” Steve continues, “this company is legit, and the pay is good and people actually want my art.”

“Porn? You fuck you-fucking drew,” Bucky is wheezing from shock, “porn?”

“Yeah, just some basic kinky shit, a lot of men want that stuff for their partners,” Steve says nonchalantly. “It was through Tumblr, and this company I’m using now is the real deal, so I’ve been working on some stuff.”

Bucky is still in shock, but continues on, “when did you apply?”

“Literally within the last few days, they wrote back immediately and said that they had shown my work to some smaller clients, and they had wanted in,” Steve swirls spaghetti around his fork and takes a bite.

“Jesus christ, that’s amazing Steve. I’m so happy for you,” Bucky smiles. “But, you need to show me the porn.”

“I’m not showing you—“

“Steve, you need to show me the goddamn porn.”

“I’m really not going to— Bucky, I swear to God—“

“Steve, it’s a matter of national security, you need to show me the fucking porn—“

“No—“

“The country needs your porn, the people, they need your porn!”

“Oh geez,” Steve runs his hands through his hair and Bucky chuckles. “You are an asshole, Bucky Barnes.”

“You love me, shut up,” Bucky takes another bite of Steve’s salad, and doesn’t notice Steve blushing hardcore. His stomach twists, and Steve can’t help but think that yeah, maybe he does. 

“But, I’m happy for you, y’ doofus, you gotta show me the shit you’re doin’,” Bucky reaches to take some of Steve’s salad, but Steve swats away his hand. 

“Jesus, Bucky you have your own fucking salad.”

“Yeah but yours tastes better.”

“They’re exactly the same, you moron.”

“Everything is better when it’s not your own shit,” Bucky steals a bite of Steve’s bread.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?” Steve asks, which Bucky responds to by throwing bread at his head. 

“Yes.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMING SOON TO AN AO3 NEAR YOU:  
> Bruce Banner, the nicest guy ever.  
> Thor(!), and his wonderful gym.  
> Nat, and her totally necessary sarcasm and meddling.  
> Tony, because fucking Tony.  
> Sam, the Good Bro™.  
> Clint spy the Assassin Guy (CLINT CLINT CLINT CLINT CLINT).
> 
> And even more pining, angst and fluff, courtesy of the hella gay boys named Buckarooni and Steeb
> 
> Leave kudos and comments, let me know what you think!


End file.
